Hope Triumphant III: Anamchara
by Parda
Summary: As mortals die and the world keeps changing, Cassandra, Methos, Connor, and Duncan each seek partners for the years to come. Set in 2029-2082. Includes Amanda, Ceirdwyn, Gregor, and Michelle Webster.
1. Intro and Overview

_Because the story_ Anamchara_ is very long, this list of chapters is provided for ease of navigation. A synopsis (spoilers galore!) is below to aid in remembering what happened. **To start reading the actual story, please go to "Love and Death"which is labeled as Chapter 2 on this site.** The last chapter and the epilog were posted together in "Measure of A Man".  
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_I regret to say that I didn't realize the limit of one comment per chapter would interfere with leaving comments after chapters have been rearranged. Comments can be left on any chapter or sent via PM. I promise I'll read them and respond.  
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_**Cassandra and the Sisterhood: **_**Hope Triumphant III - Anamchara **

Highlander Fanfiction by Parda - 2014

_**DISCLAIMER:** Cassandra, Methos, Connor, Duncan, Amanda, Rachel Ellenstein, Michelle Webster, and anyone else you recognize from on-screen are not my original characters, and I didn't come up with the idea of HL. No money is being made from this story. The original characters Anne (created by Bridget MT), Evann (created by Robin T), Emory (created by Listen-r) and Elena (created by Vi Moreau) belong to their respective authors; the rest of the original characters (Sara, Colin, Serena, Karla, Urushan, etc.) are mine._

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><p><strong>Contents<br>**

1. Love and Death – Duncan buries his wife and visits Cassandra  
>2. The French Connection – Methos has a new job and meets an old friend<br>3. Reborn – Duncan and Connor go a-wandering  
>4. Methuselah's Gift – Connor says goodbye to Rachel, Duncan talks with Methos and goes walk-about<br>5. Bless the Child – Connor and his daughter Sara  
>6. Two of Hearts – Cassandra asks Connor for a date, Amanda visits<br>7. Double Jeopardy – Duncan and Methos go spelunking  
>8. Turnabout – Connor considers his options<br>9. Promises – Connor and Cassandra (finally!)  
>10. The Watchers – Curious students<br>11. Chivalry – Duncan to the rescue  
>12. Timeless – Cassandra and Elena take care of a problem<br>13. Deadly Exposures – Duncan gets a new name and a new life  
>14. Crime and Punishment – Duncan considers the problem of justice<br>15. Birthright – a MacLeod family picnic  
>16. Line of Fire - Methos returns<br>17. Haunted - Trying to cope  
>18. Freefall - Connor lashes out<br>19. Unusual Suspects - the investigation takes an unexpected turn  
>20. End of Innocence - saying farewell<br>21. Inferno - changes in the wind  
>22. The Lamb - immortality comes too soon<br>23. Passion Play - Connor and Chelle deal with death  
>24. Something Wicked - a darkness comes<br>25. Mortal Sins - Methos is unfortunately detained  
>26. An Eye for an Eye - the price of vengeance<br>27. Hunters - Duncan, Cassandra and Chelle seek their friends  
>28. Manhunt - seeking the truth in Armenia<br>29. Justice - Urushan tells a tale and asks some questions  
>30. Testimony - Methos faces a jury of his peers<br>31: The Measure of a Man - putting the pieces together  
>31. Epilog - To Be - new beginnings<p>

Cassandra's tale will be continued in _Hope Triumphant IV: Mother _and _Hope Triumphant V: Phoenix. _The original character Karla Morgan is featured in my story _The Guardian_, which is on fanfiction_dot_net. All the sections of the Hope Saga are listed below.

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><p><strong><em>Hope Saga<em>**

**_Hope Forgotten - Cassandra and the Prophecy_  
><strong>I. Priestess (1200BCE) Roland tracks Cassandra to the temple of the Goddess  
>II. Witch (1500s) Cassandra moves to the Highlands of Scotland and spends time with Connor<br>III. Guardian (1592-1623) Cassandra watches over mortal Duncan  
>IV. Exile (1630) Connor visits Cassandra in Aberdeen and finally realizes she is playing a different kind of game<br>V. Penitent (1996) Cassandra visits Connor in the Highlands and asks for his forgiveness  
>VI. Sentinel (June 1996) Cassandra warns Duncan about Roland<strong><br>**

**_Hope Remembered - Cassandra and the Horsemen  
><em>**I. Friend (summer 1996) Connor helps Cassandra train to fight Kronos  
>II. Fury (Nov 1996) Cassandra and Duncan go after the Horsemen<br>III. Confidante (Nov 1996) Cassandra and Elena compare notes on the MacLeods and Methos  
>IV. Kindred (Dec 1996) Cassandra spends Christmas with the MacLeods<br>V. Priestess (1 Jan 1997) Cassandra reclaims her power as a priestess

**_Hope Triumphant - Cassandra and the Sisterhood  
><em>**I. Healer (1997-2006) Cassandra goes into therapy, Duncan faces Ahriman, and Methos goes a wandering  
>II. Sister (2006-2029) Cassandra sets out to change the world<br>III. Anamchara (2029-2082) Duncan and Connor say farewell to their wives then look for partners for the years to come  
>IV. Mother (2600-2700) On a new world, Methos and Cassandra begin again<br>V. Phoenix (2800s) Even a society of immortals can't last forever

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><p><strong>Synopsis of Hope Triumphant III: Anamchara<br>**

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><p>A way to remember or find out what's happened in this story<br>**Here there be spoilers. Turn back now unless you want to find out the quick way **what happens**! **

**To start reading the story, please go to the chapter entitled "Love and Death"**

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**1. Love and Death**

_June 2029 - _In New Zealand, Duncan buries his wife, Susan, and then he and Connor (also a recent widower) wander about for a while. Duncan decides to leave the life of Mark Johnson behind soon. Connor plans on spending more time with his family. In the airport, they read of a man who was shot then beheaded. Connor notes that someone isn't playing by the rules.

In December, Duncan goes to Prague to visit Cassandra, who's running a school for the Phinyx Foundation. Amshula, a Guardian at the school, asks Duncan out, but he (still grieving) declines. Sara (Connor's daughter) greets her Uncle Duncan and they talk of family matters: Connor is living in the Highlands at the family farm with Colin, Sara's twin brother. Sara wants to have another baby but the sterility plague is causing miscarriages. Duncan convinces her to go to Scotland for a family Christmas.

Duncan asks Cassandra about the shooting-beheading, and she agrees to look into it. He asks for help in finding Methos, and Cassandra says he recently finished an engineering degree in Canada, but she doesn't know where he is.

Sara tells Cassandra she wants to volunteer for the medical treatment to have another child; she's seen visions of her son. (Both Sara and Colin have some psychic powers.) Cassandra is pleased there will be more children born to this family; she's keeping track of Sara's half-siblings, too. Sara tells Cassandra that she expects Cassandra and Connor will be lovers again someday.

**2. The French Connection**

_December 2029 -_ Methos is in a bar with friends talking about building a space ship when Serena, a lovely immortal, arrives. She greets Methos by the name Philippe and kisses him passionately. His friends, who knew Methos as a boring Canadian engineer, are surprised. Methos and Serena enjoy a weekend together, then he shows her the engines they're building. Her company makes some of the parts. She offers to pay for the two of them to go into orbit and have fun there, enticing him with the promise: "It will be new."

**3. Reborn**

_December 2029:_ The MacLeods gather at the family farm in the Highlands for Christmas. Sara sadly realizes it's the last one; her father can't pretend to age anymore. Duncan and Connor travel the world for a few years together then fake their death at sea so they can change their identities.

_July 2034 - _Sara reads of the death of her father in the newspaper. A few weeks later, he comes to visit and admires her son, Will, born a few months before. Connor says his new name is Michael Connor Audren, and Sara realizes she'll have to lie to her husband whenever she wants to see her dad.

Methos reads of the deaths at sea then drinks a toast to his old friend, Duncan MacLeod.

**4. Methuselah's Gift**

_November 2034_: Methos visits Duncan in Australia and tries to convince him not to go see his children and grandchildren, since "Mark Johnson" is dead, but Duncan goes anyway. His family doesn't recognize him. Duncan tells Methos he's going to start a career as a helicopter rescue pilot.

_January 2037: _Connor moves with Rachel from New York to a house in England. They spend her final years together, and Connor's children and grandchildren visit in the summers. Whenever Sara's husband or Colin's wife is there, Connor leaves, since they don't know about immortality and might recognize their "deceased" father-in-law.

_Summer 2041:_ Rachel dies in her sleep on a lovely summer day. After her funeral, Connor starts to walk from Cornwall to Scotland, carrying her ashes. Duncan goes walk-about and ends up in Ireland, where he meets the immortal Kate, who invites him to learn how to weave. He signs up for her class, and one day they go for a walk along old paths. They meet Sofie, who just shot a man then took his head. She explains she's only been an immortal for three years, that he was stalking her and killed her cat and threatened her mother, so she defended herself. Duncan eventually accepts her story but warns her to follow the rules from now on. Kate takes Sofie as a student. Kate and Duncan discuss the brutal reality of the Game then part as friends and with hopes of seeing each other again. "You can show me the kilt you weave," she says.

**5. Bless the Child**

_Autumn 2042_– At St. Hildegard's Academy in the Alps (another of the Phinyx schools), Connor and Sara aren't getting along. Cassandra points out that Sara's husband has recently left her, and her father had "died", so she's feeling abandoned. Connor points out that he's moved to Austria just to be with Sara and her daughter, Alea (now 15 years old), yet Sara's not happy at all. Eventually, Sara admits to Connor that her husband left her and took their son with him because he thought she was having an affair with "Michael Audren", and Sara's been blaming her dad. They deal with that, and then Sara joins the betting pool the students at St. Hildegarde's have going about how long it will take Connor (known as Sensei Mike) and Cassandra (known as Laina Garrison, the music teacher) to finally go to bed.

**6. Two of Hearts**

_St. Hildegarde's, December 2042 _– Cassandra tells Connor that she never stayed once her children were grown and drops a hint that he might consider leaving now, but he wants as much time with his children and grandchildren (even if they know him only as a friend) as he can have. Cassandra asks Connor to watch the sunset with her, and they go on a few dates. Cassandra tells him she wants to be lovers again. Connor thinks about it for a day then says no, because he's concerned she wants more than he can give.

Amanda visits the day after Christmas, bringing Connor cookies as a present, and asks for Connor's professional appraisal of a necklace that resembles one Rebecca used to wear. He remembers when the four of them (Duncan and Amanda, himself and Rebecca) used to double date. Amanda mentions how nice it is that Immortals can swap partners over the centuries without getting jealous then kisses Connor goodbye. Connor wonders if Amanda is suggesting he be with her, or is acting as a matchmaker for Cassandra.

Amanda offers to help Cassandra figure out how to get Connor into bed.

**7. Double Jeopardy** –

_Paris, December 2042 - _Methos visits Duncan's apartment, and finds a trail of discarded clothes leading to the bedroom. Methos tries to guess the identity of the mystery woman while Duncan makes breakfast. The woman appears, and it's Serena, also known as Kate the weaver from Ireland. The three have breakfast together, and Kate/Serena suggests they go to bed together, too. Maybe Duncan's friend Amanda would like to join them? Duncan hastily demurs.

They go spelunking in the catacombs below Paris and chat about old times. Duncan learns that Methos and Serena/Kate knew Ramirez fifteen hundred years ago. She, being an engineer, asks about his sword, and Duncan says he'll introduce her to the current owner.

They go to dinner and Duncan is challenged by an old foe. Both Kate and Methos try to convince him to ignore it, but he goes to fight while they wait. Kate realizes that Methos is seriously interested in Duncan, but is waiting for Duncan to make the first move. Duncan wins the fight, and Methos tells Kate to take care of Duncan. Methos wanders Paris alone, remembering Byron's poetry.

Duncan recuperates from the quickening in a hotel room with Kate then they go to his flat in Caen. While he gives her a footrub, she asks him if he said no to her suggestion of a threesome because he doesn't like men in general or because he doesn't like Methos that way? Duncan ducks the question. They talk about lovers and friends; Kate mentions an immortal lover who got depressed (the way all immortals do) and followed a destructive path to death. Duncan remembers pulling Gregor and Connor and himself out of the same sort of thing. Kate leaves the next day, and Duncan goes to Paris to talk to Methos, but he's disappeared. Duncan isn't sure he's ready for a relationship with Methos, but decides that when Methos returns, he'd like to find out more.

**8. Turnabout**

_Austria, 31 December 2042 - A_fter a chat with Sara, and then a conversation with Cassandra, Connor reconsiders Cassandra's offer. Cassandra remembers Amanda's advice about men during their recent shopping trip: let them do the asking. Sara and Alea bake Connor a birthday pie; he's 534.

**9. Promises – Connor and Cassandra (finally!)**

'nuff said.

**10. The Watchers – Curious students**

Sara wins the betting pool the students had on Connor and Cassandra, but Alea tells her the film class put together a video detailing the relationship, and Sara immediately shuts down all the communication towers in the valley to keep it from going public. Cassandra uses the Voice to get every last copy from the students. Sara tries to adjust to her father and her mentor being lovers.

**11. Chivalry – Duncan to the rescue **_(This story is told in more detail in "Elena's Journey")_

_Mediterranean, January 2044 - _Duncan goes to rescue his friend Elena Duran, whose plane (with her husband and her mother-in-law) has gone down in the Mediterranean. She washes up on the isle of Minorca, and Duncan kills an immortal who's hunting her. Elena spends a week at St. Hildegarde's with Cassandra and Connor, then goes to Australia, taking time to grieve. Connor and Duncan discuss the recent shooting/beheadings, but see no pattern. When Elena returns in 2045, she seeks out Duncan in France, and they become lovers once again.

**12. Timeless – Cassandra and Elena take care of a problem**

_London 2046 _- Cassandra hears that Claudia Jardine has been beheaded by Peter Shaw. She tells Connor, who suggests she let Elena know, since Shaw and Elena became enemies forty years ago. Cassandra reads the Watcher files on Peter Shaw. One of his kills is Claudia's teacher, Walter Graham; Claudia had no idea. Elena says she wants to kill Shaw, and Cassandra goes with Elena to Scotland, where Elena takes his head. After they bury the body, Cassandra warns her about the addictive power of quickenings.

_May Day, 2046 – _At St. Hildegarde's school, Cassandra updates the files with lists of kills. Connor reflects on the number of heads he's taken then suggests he and Cassandra go to the woods and celebrate May Day in the time-honored way.

**13. Deadly Exposures – Duncan gets a new name and a new life**

_Spring 2046_** – **During a rescue mission in the English Channel, Duncan stays behind on a life raft so the overloaded helicopter can get back to shore, then drowns in a storm. The media blast the story of the fallen hero, while Connor and Cassandra and Elena get boats and hunt for his body in the waves. Elena takes him to England to recuperate, and Duncan gets a new identity with the name of Justin Morris. He wanders about, and in June he meets Kristl while hiking in the Alps. She's one of the Phinyx Guardians, searching for a serial rapist in the hills, and she doesn't like his story, so she calls in backup: one Michael Connor Audren a.k.a. Connor MacLeod.

Duncan and Connor fly a helicopter back to St. Hildegarde's school and have dinner with Cassandra. She offers to teach Duncan to resist the Voice, and he immediately agrees. Cassandra has asked Connor to kill her if she starts to teach anyone the Voice, and now Connor tells Duncan that the task will fall to him if Connor dies.

**14. Crime and Punishment – Duncan considers the problem of justice  
><strong>_July 2046: _Duncan takes a job as dance teacher and martial arts instructor at the school. Connor's been practicing connecting with animals via the Quickening, and he and Duncan and Cassandra practice extending their range. Connor's granddaughter, Alea, graduates, and she and her mom, Sara, and her brother, Will, move to Edinburgh.

The Guardians find the rapist they were looking for, and Connor and Cassandra and Duncan discuss issues of justice and how much immortals should get involved. In September, Elena comes for a visit, and Duncan discusses the death penalty with her. Elena leaves for a funeral and invites Duncan to join her in Argentina come Christmastime. In October, Amanda visits, and she and Duncan demonstrate the tango to a very interested class of girls. He asks her about the death penalty, too.

Duncan finishes his lessons in resisting the Voice, the week before Christmas, he and Connor go to Frankfurt to meet Kate, who wants to see Ramirez's sword. She and Connor discuss metallurgy; Duncan goes shopping for presents. At dinner, they talk of Byron. The next day, Connor goes to visit a friend, and Duncan and Kate go sightseeing. She's worried about Sofie, who became her student seven years ago in Ireland. Kate hasn't heard from her lately. At dinner, she asks more about Byron. Duncan asks her about Methos; Kate says he's due back from Mars in April.

Connor and Duncan go to the Highlands and watch the sunrise over the Solstice stones.

**15. Birthright – a MacLeod family picnic**

_December 2046: _Sara and Colin MacLeod celebrate their 50th birthday at the family farm in the Highlands. Duncan and Connor and Cassandra gather with them for Christmas. Will says he likes it in the Highlands, and Sara and he move to the farm. Sara once again begins to have psychic dreams: a scene of smoke and fire.

In the summer of 2047, the MacLeods gather for a family picnic. Alea brings a friend from school, who's pregnant, and tells her mother that she's thinking of trying to get pregnant, too, probably by artificial insemination. Cassandra says world population is dropping, and will be five billion by 2060.

Connor and Cassandra announce they're taking new jobs and their relationship is on hold for now. Sara suggests to her older brother John that he move from Colorado to the Highlands; he says he'll think about it. Sara's dreams are more frequent now, and her son and Colin's son are showing signs of psychic powers, too. In the summer of 2048, Alea gets pregnant, and Sara tells her it will be a girl, born with the snow, and red hair. She's had dreams of Will's descendants, too, and more dreams of fire.

**16. Line of Fire - Methos returns**

_October 2048 – _In London, Cassandra and Sara attend a Phinyx reunion. Duncan stops by, and Connor arrives for a conference on metallurgy. They gather in a hotel, and sense another immortal: Methos is in the bar. After brief, polite conversation, Methos invites Duncan out for a beer. They chat and cautiously reconnect after five years.

The next morning, Sara and Cassandra go to the reunion, gather intel from the Phinyx Sisterhood, then report to each other on the status of the world. Grace is investigating the genetics of psychic ability; Sara's family isn't the only one. Reports on immortal genetics show no family ties. Sara joins the council in session; Cassandra attends the convocation of the priestesses.

Methos is walking in London when he's caught by the explosion of a bomb. After he heals, he starts to help the people nearby. Connor hears the explosion from a distance and starts to run: the hotel with the Phinyx reunion is in flames. But Cassandra and Sara are all right; they were outside. Connor is carrying a woman away from the flames when there's another explosion and he dies.

The explosion takes the head of another immortal, and the quickening seeks out Methos. After it's over, he joins a woman from Phinyx at a first aid station and offers his services as a doctor.

Connor wakes up and finds Cassandra in row of dead bodies; she was burned beyond recognition by the second blast of fire. He searches for Sara and finds her sitting under a tree, exhausted. He joins her and she tells him, "I love you, Daddy." Then she says, "It's getting dark" before dying in Connor's arms.

**17. Haunted - Trying to cope**

_October 2048 _After helping the injured and the dying all day, Methos seeks out female companionship for the evening. In the morning, he sees a picture of Connor holding a dying Sara in his arms in the news.

Duncan and Connor help Cassandra heal by removing burned tissue while she's dead. Unfortunately, she's semi-conscious for some of it, and this triggers flashbacks to being tortured.

Once Cassandra is sleeping peacefully, Connor goes to be with his grandchildren, who are staying in a hotel. He contacts Erika, a Phinyx Guardian, and offers to help her track down the bomber. Sara's ex-husband, Daniel, arrives and tells Connor that his presence is no longer necessary; Daniel will take care of his own children.

When Cassandra wakes, Duncan tells her that Sara has died. She weeps, mourning her goddess-child. When Connor arrives that afternoon, she tries to comfort him. He's interested in the bombing, she's not. When he sees the picture of him and Sara on the news and realizes that Phinyx is publicizing it, he's furious at this invasion of his privacy. Cassandra suggests that maybe the photo will help change the mood of the people and discourage such bombings. Connor loses his temper, saying her Phinyx disciples are just using death as PR opportunity, and that Cassandra doesn't care about Sara at all. Cassandra doesn't respond and he calls her a cold-hearted bitch and walks out on her.

After Connor leaves, Cassandra tries to figure out what she did wrong. She decides she should have been more supportive, and she hopes he won't be too angry with her or hit her too many times. She cleans the apartment, then stops, realizing she's reverted to acting like a slave. She goes to the bathroom and stares at herself in the mirror, saying, "Hello again. Hello, me."

**18. Freefall - Connor lashes out**

_October 2048 - _Connor goes to a bar and drinks too much. He calls Duncan and says he'll be back at the hotel soon. On the way out of the bar, Connor meets Methos, who expresses his condolences on the death of Sara. Connor, in an utterly foul mood, curses him and walks out.

Cassandra is out walking and goes to the tree where Sara died. She lights a candle and says farewell. Duncan calls Methos to ask for a raincheck on their agreement to go riding, because Connor needs him right now.

Connor is out walking in London, remembering, and a young man tries to take his wallet. They get into a fight and Connor beats him bloody then kicks him when he's down. Connor gets the Buzz and looks up to see Cassandra watching him from a distance. She backs up then turns and walks away.

**19. Unusual Suspects - the investigation takes an unexpected turn  
><strong>_19 October 2048 - _Connor goes to the tree where Sara died. Duncan finds him there in the early morning hours. They sit vigil in the rain until dawn then go back to the hotel. Daniel and Alea and Will tell Connor (whom they know as Mike) that they're going to take Sara's body to the Highlands, so that Connor can handle the funeral arrangements of Laina (aka Cassandra, who's not dead).

So now Connor has nothing do to. Duncan tells him that Cassandra cried when she heard about Sara, and Connor realizes he acted like an idiot the day before. He sends Methos an apology, and sends Cassandra a note. They agree to meet in the Highlands in a few days.

Connor and Duncan go the memorial service for the victims of the bombing, and Connor gets more info from Erika about suspects. She says they're looking into the possibilities of a Phinyx fanatic, who made martyrs to advance the cause. Connor wonders briefly if Cassandra might have set the bomb but decides no.

**20. End of Innocence - saying farewell  
><strong>_20 October 2048 - _At Sara's funeral, Connor and Duncan meet Sara's boyfriend, who puts a ring in her grave. He was going to ask her to marry him. Methos has sent a bottle of whisky, and after filling in the grave, Connor and Duncan drink toasts to those who have died. Later, Connor and Colin talk and try to comfort each other. Colin says he's going to be a grandfather soon, and he's looking forward to seeing Alea's daughter when she's born, hoping she looks like Sara.

The next morning, Cassandra arrives at the MacLeod Farm, and she and Colin plant flowers on Sara's grave. She has visions of many MacLeod descendants, born from Colin and Sara's lines.

Connor shows up, and apologizes to Cassandra. All is going well, but when he asks a lot of questions about the bombing, she realizes he was suspecting her. She's furious, and he's angry too. When she says the name "Caorran", Connor steps toward her, telling her that his daughter's name was "Sara Heather MacLeod". Cassandra (still hypersensitive from flashbacks the day before) interprets this as a threat and uses the Voice on him. They calm down, but Cassandra (remembering him beating the mortal) tells Connor that he's too violent, and she can't be his lover anymore. He eventually agrees to split up, and they part, still friends, but not on great terms.

That night, Colin tells Connor that Yellowstone has erupted and the volcano is destroying half of North America. Connor climbs the hill to the graves and tells the women buried there that he's going to go find John in Colorado. On Sara's grave, he finds the long braid of Cassandra's hair.

**21. Inferno - changes in the wind**

_Oct 2048 _– Duncan calls Methos and cancels their plans again; Duncan is going with Connor to look for John. Methos says looking for survivors that close to the volcano is foolish. Duncan's going anyway. Two weeks later, Cassandra calls Methos and they meet in a garden in Sheffield. She asks Methos if he can still love, after all this time. Yes, he reassures her. They both think the civilization will collapse soon; he's hoping to get to the stars first. He asks about dead immortals at the bombsite; she tells him it was probably Grace Chandel. Methos invites Cassandra for a drink and she says no, but they part on friendly terms.

_November 2048_** – **Duncan and Connor dock their boat of relief supplies on the coast of Texas and deal with paperwork. Connor gets the trucks and they head north, though they're told the roads are closed in Kansas. On the way, there's an accident, and they help Michelle Webster (an immortal Duncan knew sixty years ago) out of a car. She's escorting Tomas, a five-year-old preimmortal, to Ceirdwyn's school. She tells them everything under the ash is dead. Connor's going anyway.

Once in the ash, they leave their trucks and start walking. The place is a blast zone. Connor remembers reaching out with his quickening and touching the world a few years ago with Cassandra. He tries it now, searching, and hones in on John, who's lying in bed with his wife, both of them dead for weeks, buried under ash. Connor gives up, and he and Duncan walk back.

_December 2049 – _In London, Methos and Cassandra meet by chance at the memorial of the bombing. There's a full-size sculpture of Connor holding the dying Sara, though the faces are blurred and not recognizable. Methos is excited about the space ship; Cassandra is moving up through the ranks of the Gaian priestesses, neither of them has heard from the MacLeods.

**22. The Lamb - immortality comes too soon**

_Winter 2050 - _Duncan and Connor are working as teachers at Ceidwyn's school for pre-immortals in Ohio. Tomas is a student there. Baden, another immortal, shows up to help. He's a friend of Chelle's, and he tells them that she did 20 years as a U.S. Marine, and became a doctor. Duncan realizes he doesn't know Chelle at all.

A few weeks later, Chelle arrives with Terah, who looks nine but is really 14. She's already an immortal; she was killed then kept as a sex slave by an immortal who liked young girls, and she's never been around other kids. They decide to teach her what they can. Zachary, a math teacher and a middle-aged pre-immortal, teaches her to add and Chelle teaches her to read. Terah and Tomas play together.

Things are going well until the fall, when Zachary cuts off his own head, leaving a suicide note that says "I can't live this way." It was his 50th birthday.

**23. Passion Play - Connor and Chelle deal with death**

_September 2050 _- After Zachary's funeral, Chelle goes to Connor's room, saying she's interested in some rough sex, no pretty words, and tells him "Don't be gentle with me." She also says she does not want to be gentle with him. Connor is definitely willing to oblige. Over the next several months, their relationship starts to become more than just physical, and they both become a bit more cautious.

**24. Something Wicked - a darkness comes**

_November 2050_ - Terah and Tomas go missing, and Chelle and Connor go in search. They find a campfire, then Connor lies in wait while Chelle talks with Terah and David, an immortal who's been camping out in the woods and hanging out with Terah. There's no sign of Tomas. Terah accuses Chelle of killing her father, and Chelle admits it's true. David offers to kill Chelle, and Terah enthusiastically agrees. Swords are drawn, but then David shoots Chelle and offers Terah the chance to take Chelle's head in revenge.

Connor intervenes and shoots them both with an electric stunner, killing David. Connor ties them up and waits for someone to revive. Chelle is first, and while she goes to wash off in a creek, Terah wakes up. Connor asks her where Tomas is, but she won't say, so he starts using the stunner on her,and she screams. Chelle returns, gets Connor to stop, then uses her quickening to search out Tomas. He's in the tree fort nearby, and he's a full Immortal now.

Terah admits she killed him so that he would be her eternal playmate. She's thinking of killing others, too. Chelle beheads her, and while the quickening is happening, David revives. He's furious with them for killing "a helpless girl", and Connor is happy to oblige him with a duel. Connor defeats David easily and takes his head.

After the quickening, Connor helps Chelle put the bodies on the fire then goes to find Tomas in the tree fort. They talk for a bit, though Tomas doesn't realize what Terah did to him and Connor doesn't say anything. As he's climbing down from the tree fort, Connor shoots him with the stunner and catches the body as it falls. He says farewell and takes Tomas's head.

**25. Mortal Sins**

_November 2050 - _Connor and Duncan stand vigil over the funeral pyre of Tomas, Terah, and David. Back at the school, Chelle tells the other immortals what happened. Terah's diary reveals that she seduced Zachary just before he killed himself. Baden is not happy that Connor killed Tomas and says they shouldn't automatically kill immortal children. Connor ends the discussion by reminding everyone of the Game and saying that eternal children don't belong in an endless war.

Later, Connor and Chelle meet in the dojo. She asks him to spar, and he says no, but when she asks again, he agrees. They engage in a brutal bout with swords and then with bare hands, both of them seeking to be punished for taking the children's heads the day before. He beats her bloody before it's done, giving into his rage. He apologizes and they talk about handling death and anger. That night, she comes to his room and they are gentle with each other for the first time. They agree to meet in Paris in the spring in a few years.

_April 2052 - _Methos gets a note from Duncan, saying he's back from North America and would Methos like to cash in that raincheck? Methos writes back to say yes, in the fall. He's busy right now, working in India on the space program and the ship will be launching soon. However, as he's walking home, he runs across a beheaded body, then unknown assailants shoot him with stunners and his world goes dark.

**26. An Eye for an Eye - the price of vengeance**

_April 2052 - _Returning from the trip to North America, Connor goes to the Highlands to see Colin, only to discover that Colin died the month before. No one in the Macleod family has any idea who Connor really is. His granddaughter, Alea, suggests they become lovers, and Connor turns her down. He tells stories to Orla and Ian, his great-grandchildren, and leaves.

Methos wakes up in a cell, and then is interrogated via intercom by the Immortal Tribunal, which tells him they will execute him if they don't like his answers. They use a truth detector, and he's honest, but still evasive. When asked if he likes to kill, he says no, but that's a lie. They zap him with a nerve gun, and ask him some more questions, and he explains he's not like that anymore. They tell him they're going to hold him for further evaluation. "How long?" he asks but gets no answer.

Connor wanders after leaving the family farm, gets drunk, and gets into a bar fight. He enjoys the fighting a bit too much and accidentally kills someone. The villagers beat him up in return, and he doesn't fight back. They also go too far, and he dies. They strip his body, put him in a boat, and row to the middle of the loch. When he revives, the two people in the boat panic and start smashing him with oars. During the struggle, one of his eyes is ripped out. They throw him overboard. He washes up on the beach, half-blind, bloody, and naked, and just lies there.

**27. Hunters - where are they now?**

_December 2052 _When Methos doesn't appear in the fall as promised and doesn't answer letters, Duncan decides to go to India to find him. He doesn't have much luck, and he sends Cassandra a letter, hoping she knows something.

_June 2053 - W_hen Connor doesn't appear in the spring in Paris as promised, Chelle goes to Cassandra for help. They gingerly discuss their lover. When Cassandra finds out that Connor beat Chelle up, she's very concerned and asks Chelle never to tempt Connor that way again. Cassandra uses her quickening to find both Connor and Methos. She tells Chelle that Connor's son died, and encourages Chelle to go and offer Connor comfort in Scotland. Then she goes to India to help Duncan find Methos.

During dinner, Cass and Duncan have an encounter with Amshula, the Phinyx guardian who hit on Duncan thirty years ago. She's figured out they're immortal, and she wants answers. Cass uses the voice to convince Amshula to work to hide the secret of immortality, the way the Watchers used to. Duncan isn't happy with this, and wonders why mortals would bother, especially since Cass told Amshula that the Game and The Prize weren't real. Cass agrees they'll need to come up with something, and they decide to deal with it later.

Amshula meets with a friend, who believes that immortals are avatars of the gods, and that Cassandra is the handmaiden of Shakti, the one who changes. The watchers are being reborn.

Cass and Duncan keep searching for Methos, using a key that belonged to Methos and Cass's psychic powers to guide them north to Armenia. There they meet an immortal named Erianne, who's on her way to a place called Haven, which she says is a school for Immortals. Duncan is worried it's a trap, but Cassandra tells him that Methos is there, so off they go.

**28. Manhunt  
><strong>(The character Karla Morgan is featured in Parda's story _The Guardian_.)

_October 2053_ - Erianne tells Cass about her immortal life so far, as they ride in a horse-drawn car to the Haven school. When Erianne falls asleep, Duncan asks Cass what she senses about Methos and Connor. Cass says Methos is awake and near. She didn't check on Connor because she doesn't want to intrude on his time with Chelle. Duncan asks why she and Connor broke up. Cass explains that Connor's violence frightens her, and says that she feels safer with Methos than she does with Connor.

Methos wakes up in his cell and finds out he's been dead for a while - 18 months have passed. The Tribunal tells him that his evaluation will be soon and asks him for the name of someone who can vouch for him. Methos thinks through a list of immortal friends who know him fairly well and could withstand the Tribunal's scrutiny. He names Serena then starts working on ways to escape.

In the valley near Haven, Duncan meets Karla Morgan, an old friend and now the preceptress of the Haven school, which has been converted from an old monastery and is on holy ground. He describes Methos and asks her if she's seen him. She says no and says she can ask around. Duncan asks her to not to; he doesn't want to spook anyone who may be keeping Methos prisoner. Karla interviews Erianne while Duncan tells Cassandra a bit about Karla: she fought for King Arthur and has been a warrior for centuries.

That evening, Duncan and Cass eat dinner at Haven school. They meet the other two teachers (Urushan and Pivik) and the students, one of whom is Sofie, whom Duncan met a dozen years before in Ireland with Kate. Sofie says Kate will be visiting soon, now that she's back on the planet from her trip to Ganymede. Duncan and Cass are relieved that the school appears legitimate but are still cautious. Duncan reaches out with his quickening to search for Methos but finds nothing but darkness.

In the morning, Karla asks Cassandra why she doesn't carry a sword, and they talk about weapons. Karla said she's heard of "the siren" (aka the witch in the woods) and Cass says she's heard of "the morrigan" (aka Karla Morgan), and they realize they're both part of an ancient organization called the Keepers, who safeguard magical talismans. Cassandra says her talisman was destroyed in Troy; Karla still has hers. They talk about starting the organization again.

Cassandra and Duncan go to the woods so she can reach out to Methos, but all she can find is that he's nearby. On the way back, they find the villagers are holding a trial for a man accused of rape. They use the Stone of Truth, a stone brought to the valley during the Crusades by Urushan, to tell when people are lying or not. The man is convicted of rape and is executed by the older women of the village. Duncan is uneasy with this as a judicial process. He helps bury the man and goes to talk to Urushan.

Cassandra goes back to Haven and tells Karla that the villagers are using a truthstone, which is one of the Keeper's talismans. They want to talk to Urushan, too.

**29. Justice**

_Scotland -_ Friar Liam is praying for a one-eyed man named John, who washed up on the island the year before. John doesn't say much, he's been working in the smithy and doing odd jobs. A young woman named Chelle showed up that summer to see him (though she calls him Connor), but John told her to go away, then ignored her rather insistent protestations. He left early the next morning. Chelle left a letter from Cassandra for him in the blacksmith shop, but John never returned. Friar Liam has prayed for them both every day since then.

_Armenia_ - Urushan tells Cassandra, Karla, and Duncan that he was given the truth stone by a hermit during the Crusades in Palestine nine hundred years ago, and he brought it back to Armenia. He keeps his oath to the hermit and uses the stone in the service of Justice. Urushan takes them to a cave under the school to see the stone. Duncan tests out the stone and wants to know how it works, but Urushan just says it's a miracle. Cass says she's seen one like it before.

Urushan asks them to consider how justice might be enforced for Immortals, and Karla, Duncan, and Cass hash out some ideas for a police force or jury of peers to take care of immortals who target pre-immortals or very young immortals, and those who use mortals as pawns. Duncan is not happy with the idea of tying people up and taking their heads but agrees that it could be acceptable if done with proper precautions. Urushan asks them if they would consider joining such a police force.

Karla realizes that Urushan is not being hypothetical. The jury of peers already exists (he calls it a tribunal), and he's inviting them to join it. Cassandra immediately says yes; Duncan and Karla want to learn more. Urushan then introduces them to four other members: Tunji, Reagan Cole (a bounty hunter Duncan has met before), Chonglin and Sofie (both students at Haven). Cassandra is sworn in as a member, and Sofie asks if she will be helping in the evaluation that day. Duncan realizes they're going to evaluate Methos, and insists that Methos be let out of his cell and brought there. The tribunes want to leave Methos is in cell for safety, but eventually they says yes, providing Duncan will serve as surety for Methos's good behavior. If Methos escapes, Duncan takes his place, and if Methos kills anyone, Duncan will be killed.

**30. Testimony  
><strong>

Methos is wakened in his cell by the immortal buzz. When he sees Cassandra and two men holding stunguns, he assumes she's behind his imprisonment. She turns and shows him that her hands are bound then tells him Duncan is nearby acting as surety. Methos agrees to behave, and the men with guns handcuff him. During their walk, Cassandra tells Methos where he is, what she knows about the Tribunal, and that a witness is on the way. Methos tells her the witness is Serena, his friend. All in all, he's feeling much better about the situation.

Back with the Tribunal, Duncan says hello to Kate (aka Serena). Then Cassandra and Methos arrive, guarded by Chonglin and Tunji. Methos is tied to a chair, and Duncan loans him a jacket, since it's chilly in the cave and Methos is wearing only pajamas. Cassandra and Kate greet each other warmly; they became friends in Ireland sixteen hundred years ago. Duncan realizes that Sofie and Chonglin and a bunch of other young immortals independently decided to protect themselves by shooting evil immortals and then taking heads, which explains the shooters he's been wondering about for the last few decades. Five years ago, with Kate's help, they organized into the Tribunal. Methos is not happy to find out that Serena is the one behind his lengthy imprisonment, but he can't yell at her now since she's still his star witness.

At the evaluation, Tunji presents information about Methos's background, including his Watcher Chronicles and pictures of him as Adam Pierson and connecting him with the Horsemen. (Years before, Chonglin had gotten hold of the disk Watcher Don Salzer made in 1995, which led the Tribunal to search out more records.) Methos admits (again) to his past and says he's changed. Duncan testifies for him, ending with "He's my best friend, and he's a good man."

Kate testifies, saying Methos is charming and smart and fun. Then she says he's also amoral with no sense of honor and she doesn't trust him at all. Methos asks her why she's angry with him, and she says she's not. Now that she knows about his past, she's realized he changes to suit his surroundings. She thinks he's hollow inside. The truthstone shows she's honest. When it's Cassandra's turn to testify, she says nice things about Methos and ends with "I want him to live." The five members of the Tribunal are then asked to decide what to do with Methos.

**31. The Measure of a Man - putting the pieces together (Set in 2053)  
><strong>The Tribunal votes 4 to 1 to let Methos go, and they apologize for detaining him so long. Methos is gracious about accepting their apologies (though he's considering how many of them he's may have to kill). Most people leave, and Urushan goes to fetch Methos's personal gear. Duncan gives Methos the katana to keep. Urushan returns, and Methos gives the Ivanhoe to Duncan. They spar in the cave, just for fun.

Methos enjoys some fresh air after his months underground, thanks Cassandra for her testimony, then talks with Serena. She tells him she's known about his time with the Horsemen for forty years, and she'd accepted that. Then she found out from Duncan that Methos was "the good doctor" that her lover Byron went to for help. She decided that Methos didn't really care about anyone or anything, and he's got no sense of honor or loyalty. That means she can't trust him. No one can. Methos manages to convince her that she's wrong; he does care. She apologizes, they part on good terms (though Methos is still considering killing her).

At dinner that evening, Karla and Cassandra and Methos and Duncan discuss what to do about the Tribunal. Methos and Karla are considering joining it, if only to take it apart from the inside. After dinner, Duncan knocks on Methos's bedroom door. They spend the night together.

The next morning, Cass and Karla go running together, then talk about finding the Keeper talismans. Cass says she can remake hers, but it will take time. Karla asks if Methos might be the key. Cassandra is not enthusiastic about the idea, but realizes it's possible. She goes back to the temple in France, where she finds a letter from Amanda, asking for help in locating the crystal pieces from Rebecca. Cass tells Amanda "yes" then sends a message to Karla to let her know they may be able to find the orb, another of the Keeper talismans. Chelle also sent a letter, saying Connor refused to see her. Cass doesn't bother to unpack, she heads for the Highlands to find Connor.

In the Highlands, Connor has retreated to a remote cottage, where he's been living alone since Chelle tried to talk to him in the summer. Cassandra uses witchcraft and their quickenings to find him. Eventually, he lets her in. They spend time together, until finally Connor comes back into the world. He needs to find a new sword and get a new eye.

**32. To Be - new beginnings, set in 2060 and beyond  
><strong>

Methos and Duncan leave Earth to join a colony on another planet.

Connor visits the Highlands to light candles on the graves of his family. He meets Orla, his great-granddaughter, who is now in her thirties. She's moved south because of the hard winters, but promises him that flowers will bloom in the Highlands again someday.

Later, Cassandra is at one of her schools, and she watches another spaceship bound for the stars. Connor's on board. She goes back to her students (some of whom are descendants of Sara and Colin), knowing that someday, Connor will return.

_The story continues in Hope Triumphant IV: Mother_


	2. Love and Death

_**Cassandra and the Sisterhood**_

**Hope Triumphant III**** - Anamchara **

Highlander Fanfiction by Parda - 2013

_For a list of chapters and a synopsis of the story thus far, please go to the last chapter (Appendix) of this story_

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 1<br>LOVE AND DEATH**

* * *

><p><strong>New Zealand, 27 June 2029<strong>

Duncan MacLeod buried his wife on a cold day of brilliant sunshine and perfect blue skies. A light snow had fallen the day before, softening sharp edges with white, dusting the world with crystalline beauty, making the open grave a black wound.

The funeral went quickly: a few words in remembrance, a song Susan had loved, a brief prayer by a minister. People filed by and dropped white roses on the casket, soft as snowflakes.

"I'm so sorry for your loss," people would come over and say, and Duncan would nod and thank them, his eyes dry, his face stiff. His kinsman Connor, who had buried a wife just two years before, stood silently by Duncan's side. Paula and Tom, grown and with families of their own, sat nearby, staring at their mother's grave.

"So young," a gray-haired woman said, shaking her head as she walked away. "Susan was only fifty-three, you know."

"And from just a scratch!" her companion said. "And so quickly."

Five days. Five days to go from healthy to dead. A simple scratch had turned necrotic, and even modern medicine had failed. By the time Duncan had gotten word and returned from his trip to Australia, Susan had been comatose, one arm already amputated, the infection raging through her body. She'd died the next morning, unaware of the touch of his hand.

Duncan had seen wounds go bad before, of course. It used to be common, an ever-present threat. These last hundred years, he'd gotten used to things being fixable. But not everything was.

"I'm sorry for your loss," an old man said, and Duncan nodded and thanked him, listening to the soft fall of roses under the brilliant blue sky.

* * *

><p>"Let's go for a walk," Connor said a week or so later, after the farm had been sold and the flowers had wilted and the food from the wake was nearly gone, and the next day Duncan bid his children farewell, then Connor and Duncan set off for the hills. They trekked deep into the wilderness, up steep hills, deep inside steep gorges, alongside quick streams that rushed down ravines with water churning under thin coverings of ice.<p>

They said little, or nothing, for days on end. There was no need. Sometimes in the silence, winds whispered to them, raptors shrieked overhead, or small animals rustled the leaves. The immensity of the quiet absorbed any bouts of weeping, anguished sobs, or shouts of rage that might occur, and then the quiet reigned again.

They spoke, finally, of their wives. Of saying goodbye, of letting go. Of falling in love. "I think," Duncan said quietly as he and Connor lay on their backs and watched the stars overhead, as they had done a thousand times before, "that I love mortal women more deeply. I give them everything I am. But maybe that's because I know they won't be with me very long." He'd had nearly twenty-five years with Susan. They'd raised two wonderful children together, held a granddaughter in their arms. Duncan closed his eyes and let the tears flow, a willing tribute to his wife. "I don't know as I could love an immortal woman that same way," Duncan said. "I care for them, I cherish them, I do love them, but… it's not the same."

"Makes sense," Connor agreed. "I've never loved an Immortal woman. Rebecca was a friend, Cassandra was… a challenge, the others were fun. And I never spent that much time with any of them, never set up house." Even in the dimness, Duncan could see the flash of white teeth as Connor grinned and said, "Female Immortals aren't exactly the domestic type."

"Amanda certainly isn't," Duncan said, and found himself almost smiling at the thought, his first smile in days. He wasn't really surprised. Amanda always had been able to make his heart glad.

The next morning, Connor asked, "Ready to go back?" and Duncan was.

Two days later, they walked into a town and rented a room for the night. Duncan and Connor washed and scrubbed then washed again. Those mountain streams had been cold, and two months of dirt took some effort to remove.

"You've gone brown," Duncan observed, as Connor stood in front of the mirror and combed the snarls from his hair, for all the gray dye had faded and now his hair matched his beard.

"And you've gone black," Connor retorted. "At the roots, anyway." He lifted an eyebrow and asked, "Cut or dye?"

The question wasn't just about hair, Duncan knew. Should he dye his hair again and go back to his life in New Zealand, or cut off all the gray and start a new life as a younger man? "Cut," Duncan announced. It was time. "You?"

"Dye," Connor said. "I'm going to visit Sara and her family on my way back to the Highlands." He tossed Duncan the comb then rummaged in the bag for a pair of scissors and started clipping off his beard. "Then I'd like one more Christmas at home. John and Gina are coming, and Rachel'll be there, too. Join us?"

"Love to," Duncan said. Even if would have to dye his hair one more time.

They went to the airport; Connor to return to Scotland, Duncan to go to Australia to start the tedious process of obtaining a new identity. "What name this time?" he asked, scrolling through the phone list as they waited in an airport bar.

"Alistair McGillicuddy?" Connor suggested, reaching for his drink. "Justin Pinsky?"

"I like Justin," Duncan said. "But if I'm going to be a Mac again, it won't be a Gillicuddy."

"Why not Duncan MacLeod?" Connor asked.

Why not, indeed? It was time.

Duncan turned off the phone list, and the screen went back to its default display of news. He skimmed the page then clicked an article from Fiji. "Man shot then beheaded" went the headline, and the story gave only a few details more. "Doesn't seem like overkill to me," a neighbor was quoted as saying. "He was a right bastard." Police were still investigating.

Duncan showed it to Connor, who read it and said merely, "Someone's not playing by the rules."

* * *

><p><strong>Phinyx European Headquarters in Prague, 14 December 2029<strong>

* * *

><p>"Tetrarch Karolina?" called Amshula from her station. "Gate security scanners show this fellow has a sword hidden on him. The blade's curved; could be a saber."<p>

Karolina abandoned her manual on small-arms training and immediately punched the button that relayed the man's image to the counselor's com-screen, flagged Priority A-1. Then she swiveled her chair around to take a look at the monitors on the far wall.

Monitor 4 showed the man—185 centimeters, powerful build, wearing a knee-length green cape over black trousers and white shirt—nodding pleasantly to the two uniformed Guardians at the outermost gate. A plain-clothes Guardian, seated near the stone fountain and apparently enjoying the winter sunshine, kept her eye on him as he walked across the courtyard. Monitor 8 (a view from inside the lobby) showed another plain-clothes on her way to the front of the reception desk, ready to delay him if ordered, trained to disarm or kill him if necessary.

Like most people, the man paused just outside the arched entryway of dark stone to look up at the carved stone garlands over the windows of the four-storied building, and camera six was perfectly positioned to take advantage of his predictable behavior. His dark hair was cut short, and his clean-shaven face was improbably handsome.

"Mmm," murmured Amshula appreciatively. "I'm off-shift in half an hour; maybe he'll still be here."

"You have class on assassination this afternoon," Karolina reminded the young woman.

"Not until two."

"It's nearly noon."

"For him, I'd skip lunch."

Karolina would, too. But— "You won't get the chance," Karolina said, for while they'd been talking, the counselor's reply had appeared on Karolina's com-screen. Karolina sent the all-clear signal to the Guardians at the entry points, then told Amshula, "Sister Caorran's been assigned to escort him, and then he has an appointment."

"With who?"

"The counselor."

Amshula's eyebrows went up. "Who is this guy?"

"Let's find out." Karolina turned on the audio pick-up, and they heard the receptionist say, "Your name, please?"

The man's voice was pleasantly deep and darkly suggestive, just like his eyes. "Duncan MacLeod."

* * *

><p>Duncan had just given his name to the receptionist when a woman dressed in a blue tunic and green leggings burst through the door to his right. "Sara!" he called, and she came at him running and landed in his arms with a thump, just like when she'd been six years old. Her hug was sweet and strong.<p>

"What a surprise!" she said. "I had no idea you were coming to Prague."

"A sudden whim," he answered, although—if he were completely honest—it was neither.

"I'm so glad," she said, moving back to look at him, the long braid of her hair swinging. "Oh, my."

"What?"

Her fingertips brushed his temples, the hair that until recently had been gray and was once again black. "You look so young."

"And you look beautiful," Duncan replied, sidestepping her comment with the ease of long experience, and with complete truthfulness. Sara had inherited her mother's stunning features, though her hair was dark honey instead of pale gold, and her eyes were more gray than blue. "Daniel's a lucky man."

"As long as he keeps thinking so," Sara said with a smile. "Are you hungry?"

"I could eat."

"Then we will." She turned to the woman at the reception desk. "This is an old friend of my family's, Sister Marjeta," Sara said, linking her arm through his. "I'll escort him while he's here."

"Yes, Sister Caorran," Marjeta said with a nod and then turned to answer a blinking phone.

"Sister Caorran?" Duncan repeated softly as they crossed the marble floor of the lobby and started up the grand curving staircase.

"That's what I'm called here. Many of us chose new names. It's a recognition of our commitment to the community, to the work."

"Like nuns?"

"Yes, in a way. Only, not all the vows."

"I'm sure Daniel is glad about that."

She grinned impishly and said, "So am I." At the top of the stairs, she pushed open a great brass-studded door. Duncan followed her into a vast room full of light and shadows—light from the row of windows all along one wall, more light leaping from the mirrors and dancing from the chandeliers high above, and shadows from the past. The long skirts of dancing women swirled by as men in velvet and lace kept time with stamping boots and clapping hands, and musicians played at the far end of the salon.

"What?" Sara asked, and the shadows and the music disappeared.

He summoned a smile. "Oh, just admiring."

"You mean remembering," she corrected. "I know that look."

"I guess you would," he said. She'd grown up with an Immortal, and she worked with one nearly every day.

"When?"

Duncan thought back. "In 1754. Or maybe '55." He pointed to the elaborate fireplace on the side wall. "Right there is where Amanda set fire to a contessa's gown. She got the fire put out." His grin came of its own accord. "She also got the contessa's jewels."

"Ah, Amanda," Sara said with a nod. "I should have known." Her gaze became intent upon him, grey-blue eyes searching his.

"What?" Duncan asked.

"You look so young," she repeated, and Duncan knew from experience that she wasn't going to let him side-step again. Sara had a tendency toward stubbornness. "Younger than I am," she added. He'd died for the first time at the age of 29; Sara would soon be 33. "I can't call you 'Uncle Duncan' anymore," Sara concluded.

Duncan had to nod. "It could be…"

"Awkward," she finished for him, and Duncan nodded again.

"How about just 'Duncan'?" he suggested.

"Duncan," she repeated, trying it out. "Why not? It is your name. Or was. Have you gone back to it?"

"I started using it again two months ago, when I left New Zealand, though I haven't gotten rid of Mark Johnson's papers just yet." He wasn't quite ready to stop being Mark Johnson. He wasn't ready to let go.

Sara pulled him to her for another hug, even stronger than before. "I was so sorry to hear about Aunt Susan. And to have it be so—"

"Thank you," he said quickly, cutting off the flow of words. Duncan breathed in slowly and set the grief aside, not behind him, but beside him… with him. He summoned a grateful smile for his niece. "The flowers you and Daniel sent were beautiful. Susan loved white roses."

"I know. She would always show us her garden when we visited." Sara pulled back, but kept hold of his hands. "Did you sell the farm?"

He nodded. "Neither Paula or Tom is interested in sheep farming. But it went to a good family. They'll keep it well."

"That's good," she said. "I'm glad Colin's kept our farm in the Highlands. I can't live there, but I like having it still be in the family. And his son, Graham, will grow up there, the same way Colin and I did."

"I know what you mean," Duncan agreed. "And it's been good for your dad, too, being able to live in the caretaker cottage there these last three years. The Highlands have always been his home."

"Colin says Dad's doing OK," Sara said with a quick nod and a tight smile. "Better than that first year after Mom died."

Duncan would have given Sara a hug then, but she let go of his hands and turned away to open a small door that was blended into the wainscoting on the wall.

A long hallway, another set of stairs, and two more doors found them at a dining hall, busy with the chatter of voices (mostly female) and the clink of dishes. They chose food from a buffet, then Sara picked out a table for two near a window overlooking a garden, all bare twigs and gray stone at this time of year, save for a pair of magnificent hollies in the distance. "Cassandra won't be joining us?" Duncan asked as they sat down.

"She wishes she could, but the president asked her to call him at 12:15. I'll take you to see her after lunch."

"The president of Phinyx Company?"

"The president of the United States." Duncan blinked at that, and Sara explained, "She was on his staff when he was a senator. They're good friends."

"I see." Duncan started on his soup, deciding to save his questions about that for Cassandra. "How have you been, Sara?"

"Busy. Daniel's out of town for a conference on software development this week, and Alea has a cold, and then work is always hectic this time of year, organizing food distribution and fuel rationing for the winter. Plus Phinyx Foundation bought a castle in the Alps six years ago, and we've just opened that as the St. Hildegard Academy for girls."

"I thought you looked a little tired."

She wrinkled her nose in a quick grimace of irritation. "That, and I had a miscarriage last week."

"Oh, Sara." He reached across the table for her hand. "I'm so sorry. This is… the second?"

"The third." He started to speak, but she cut off his expressions of sympathy just as he'd cut off hers. "I've had one child." Her smile was determinedly brave as she squeezed his hand and let go. "That's more than most women these days. I'm lucky."

She was. In the last dozen years, the sterility plague had spread across the globe. Births were rare, and many schools for young children stood empty and silent. On the positive side, orphanages were mostly empty, too. Families who did have children were either on the move to cluster together, or were sending their children to boarding schools—such as the St. Hildegard Academy.

"How's Alea?" he asked, and as he had hoped, just the mention of the little girl's name brought a proud smile to Sara's face.

"Very ready to be three. She loves music; she's always singing. And there are other children here, so she has playmates."

"She's here, in this building?"

"Oh, yes. We have a daycare and a school here. It's almost naptime, but we can see her later this afternoon."

"I'd like that," Duncan said then switched to the older generation. "Have you seen your dad lately?"

"In September." Sara sliced her potato in two with a single, neat stroke. "He stopped by here for a few days on his way back to the Highlands after Aunt Susan's funeral." She looked up then. "He said it was good to spend time with you."

"It was," Duncan agreed. "We haven't done that very often lately."

"Do you mean the last fifty years?" Sara teased. "Or the last hundred?"

"Hundred, I guess," Duncan said with some surprise. Connor had been busy raising Rachel in the 1940s and '50s, and then he'd opened the antique shop in New York City. There had been that sailing trip in '77, but then Duncan had met Tessa and Connor had married Brenda, so there went the '80s. For the last thirty years, their families had kept them busy on opposite sides of the globe. They'd seen each other, of course, at least every other year, but a holiday with wives and kids wasn't the same as two clansmen roaming the world. "In fact," Duncan said, "we had such a good time that I'm on my way to Scotland to see him again. You'll be at the farm for the holidays, right?"

"I don't think so, Duncan. Not this year. Things are so busy."

"All the more reason to come." He leaned forward with an encouraging smile. "John and Gina are coming, and Rachel, and of course there are horses. Alea would love that, right? I know you miss riding. We can celebrate my birthday, your and Colin's birthday, Christmas, New Year's Eve, and then your dad's birthday… And we'll be walking to the stones to see the sunrise on the solstice."

"The solstice stones," she said softly, looking away, a faint smile on her face. Then she shrugged. "That's a guy thing."

"Sara," he said reprovingly. "It's a MacLeod thing."

She smiled even as she shook her head. "I'm not a MacLeod anymore; I'm Sister Caorran here at work and Sara Harulfson at home."

"You'll always be a MacLeod, Sara," Duncan told her firmly, "no matter what name you bear. The name doesn't matter."

"Yes, it does," she corrected then proved it by calling him by name: "Duncan MacLeod of the clan MacLeod."

"All right," he allowed. "It does matter. But whether you call yourself one or not, you're a MacLeod. And you should come home for the holidays, Christmas at least. It would mean a lot to your father to have you there."

"It would mean a lot to me, too," she answered softly. Her faint smile reappeared. "Maybe we will. I'll talk to Daniel, see about our schedules."

"Good," Duncan said, satisfied.

"You'll have to die your hair gray again," she pointed out. "Colin's wife doesn't know about Immortals, and neither does Daniel."

"I know," Duncan said, grimacing as he ran his hand through his hair. "I still have a little dye left. It'll be enough."

She was silent for a moment, seemed about to speak, but then stood and announced, "I'm getting some coffee, and I think I saw blueberry chiffon tarts at the dessert table. Join me?"

Duncan was already on his feet. "Of course." Halfway to the buffet, he stopped and turned, hearing a familiar voice at a nearby table. But the man's hair was too dark a brown, the chin too narrow, the eyes the wrong shade of blue.

"He sounds just like Colin, doesn't he?" Sara asked. "I did the same thing when I first heard him. Sometimes, I still do."

"Who is he?" Duncan asked as they poured coffee into white china mugs.

"Paul Edgerton, my half-brother."

"Your biological father…"

Sara was nodding. "… got married and had a family of his own. Colin and I have two half-sisters, too: Diana and Philippa. They're still in England. Paul's really good with computers; the Sheffield office hired him seven years ago. He transferred here last spring."

"Does he know?"

"No," she said, placing a tart on her tray. "I don't look that much like his sisters, and he's never met Colin."

Duncan selected apple strudel, and they finished their luncheon with talk of Alea's antics and Duncan's plans. "Paris, after the holidays, I think," he told Sara. "It's true, you know; it really is beautiful in the spring."

"You love Paris," Sara said, an observation that surprised him, coming from her, even though it was true.

"As they say, it's a city of love." It had been for him, and more than once. Perhaps it could be again.

She nodded, but then her eyes unfocused slightly, as if she were listening to voices only she could hear. She probably was; subdermal receivers left your hands free, and couldn't be mislaid or stolen like phones. The two guards at the gate and the guard at the fountain had them; Duncan was sure. Sara's eyes focused again, and she asked, "Should we go see Cassandra now?" Duncan nodded, and they carried their trays to the wash line then left the hall.

They'd gone up one flight of stairs and halfway down a corridor when Duncan nearly collided with a trim young woman in gray. "Excuse me," he said.

"No, excuse me," she replied, her hand resting lightly on his arm, her smile bright and warm. Unlike most of the women he'd seen today, her hair was clipped very short, a soft velvet blackness close to her skull. Her skin was dusky cream, her eyes chocolate brown.

"Guard Amshula," Sara greeted her, and Duncan realized that Amshula's gray jumpsuit with black piping was a military uniform of some kind. The only insignia she wore was an enameled pin on her collar, a silver sword upright behind a circlet of olive leaves. He'd seen the same badge on the guards outside. Sara wore a pin, too, though hers was of a blue and white earth spinning on an axis of gold.

"Sister Caorran," Amshula replied, letting go of Duncan's arm.

Duncan offered Amshula his hand. "I'm Duncan MacLeod."

Her handshake was quick and firm, her smile even brighter than before. "My name's Amshula; I'm glad to meet you. Have you been to Prague before?"

"Yes, but not for some time. Things have changed."

"Perhaps I could show you around," she offered. "I moved here two years from India, and I have come to love this town."

"He's on his way to an appointment," Sara told her.

"And I am on my way to a class. But later? Three-thirty?"

A walk in the city on this cold, sunny day sounded like an excellent way to recuperate from hours on airplanes and trains. But Amshula obviously was also interested in another type of exercise, and Duncan wasn't. Not now. But explaining why would bring forth either sympathy or an attempt to "console" him, and Duncan didn't want either. He hadn't wanted them from Amanda, and he certainly didn't want them from a mortal woman he'd just met. "I'm sorry," he said, giving her a sincerely apologetic smile. "I'll be busy."

"Perhaps tomorrow?"

"I'm afraid I'll be leaving in the morning."

"Ah." Her gaze swept from his feet to his face then she gave him another dazzling smile as she handed him her card. Her fingers were warm against his palm. "If you'll be in Prague again, v-mail me."

Duncan's smile promised nothing, but she seemed to take it as a good sign. She smiled at him again before sashaying down the hall. Her uniform fit her very well.

"Friendly girl," he commented to Sara as they started walking again.

"Very friendly," came the dry reply. They turned the corner, and Duncan stiffened slightly as the sensation of another Immortal's presence ran up his spine and settled at the base of his skull. "No need to knock, is there?" Sara noted, then opened a wooden door.

"Duncan!" Cassandra called, and she met him halfway across the long, narrow room. "It's so good to see you again," she said as she kissed his cheek and briefly clasped his hands.

It seemed Cassandra still wasn't much for hugging, at least not with him. But her eyes were bright, her smile genuine, and she looked happy and at ease. Quite a change from the woman who'd appeared in his dojo thirty-three years ago, speaking words of an ancient prophecy and begging him to kill a man who had hunted her—and haunted her—for years. Quite a change, too, from the raging virago who, six months after that, had set out to kill another enemy while battling nightmares from her past. Ten years of therapy and twenty years of working at a job she liked had helped her enormously.

"Cassandra," Duncan said and kissed her cheek in return. Behind him, he heard the door shut as Sara disappeared into the hall.

"Come sit down," Cassandra invited, leading the way past the desk to a pair of comfortable chairs standing in front of the multi-paned window that went from ceiling to floor. She tossed her waist-length hair to one side as she seated herself, her turquoise skirt flaring about her and her long, silver earrings sparkling in the sunshine. "How have you been?" she asked, but the intensity of her gaze and warmth of the words made it more than the standard conversational opener.

Duncan ducked it anyway. "All right."

She didn't take his hint to leave it alone. Cassandra, like Sara, had a tendency toward stubbornness. "Saying goodbye is always hard," she said softly.

"Especially when you don't get the chance to say it," he retorted and saw with a brief flare of satisfaction how Cassandra winced at the pain in his words.

"That does make it worse," she agreed, her eyes far away, and he realized that some of the pain was her own. "I'm sorry for your loss, Duncan," she said, and that formal phrase gave them both a place to hide.

"Thank you," he replied simply.

Cassandra finally got the message and changed the subject. "So, you're Duncan MacLeod again."

"I'd been Mark Johnson for almost thirty years. It's time."

"Connor would certainly agree. Though not, perhaps, on the choice of name."

Cassandra's witch-powers didn't seem to be working today. "Connor suggested it," Duncan told her.

Her eyebrows went up, but then she nodded. "Being Connor MacLeod again has been good for him. And giving his name to his children. He's always wanted that."

So did Duncan. Maybe someday…

"How does it feel?" she asked. "To be Duncan MacLeod again?"

"Good. But different."

"Because you're different?" she asked.

Duncan considered that. "Maybe." Living under another name had changed him. But just plain living had changed him, too, and as of next week, he'd have four-hundred-thirty-eight years of that. No matter. "Duncan MacLeod is who I am, and who I'll always be." It was long past his turn to ask her a question. "Is Cassandra the name your father gave you?"

"No," she said, her eyes going distant, looking into the past. "That name is gone. That girl died, long ago." Cassandra focused on him, returning to the here and now. "The lady of the temple told me what I was, and then she gave me my name." She smiled as she repeated his phrase: "Cassandra is who I am, and who I'll always be."

"As Connor will always be Connor."

She nodded, her smile lingering, then prodded, "And Methos?"

"I suppose. He's had that name for five thousand years."

"But he hasn't used it for the last two thousand years." The words sharpened. "Except with you."

"And with Amanda and Dawson," Duncan pointed out. "And with you."

"He had no choice with me. I knew his name."

And his past. The words went unsaid between them. Silence could be sharp, too. So could secrets; they all knew that.

"What can I do for you, Duncan?" Cassandra asked suddenly, warm and friendly again. "This isn't simply a social visit."

"No," he agreed. "You and I never go to each other unless we need something."

"True enough," she said, almost sadly. "Though I do take pleasure in your company, Duncan, and I would like to be your friend. And so, if I can help you now, I will. What can I do for you?" she asked once again.

"Have you heard of any Immortals being shot and then beheaded?"

"Not recently. But you have?"

"In Fiji, back in September." He gave her the details while she took notes.

"I'll look into it, and let you know if it seems to be a pattern," she said.

"Going to ask your Watcher contact?" he asked.

"Keeping track of these things is their job."

That wasn't, Duncan realized, either a yes or a no. What other sources of information did she have? The internet, of course, but everyone had that. Detective agencies. Other Immortals – she kept in touch with quite a few, much like Darius had, and Duncan knew that both Amanda and Elena liked to gossip. At least one Watcher spy reported to Cassandra. Maybe other mortals, too, perhaps recruited from the Phinyx Foundation. "Keeping your set of Chronicles up to date, Cassandra?" he asked.

"No, that would be too much work," she replied. "I do keep a database with names and locations of known Immortals, and I try to keep up with who's been killed."

"Don't we all," Duncan murmured. But Cassandra's database was extensive, which of course why he was here. It shouldn't be hard to ask this one simple question of her, and yet… it was. Was the reason pride? A desire for privacy? A reluctance to expose this want—this need—in him? Especially to her? But what business was it of hers? None at all. And it wasn't as if he were the only one interested; she'd been the first to bring up his name. "I'm looking for Methos," Duncan said.

Cassandra, annoyingly enough, did not seem surprised. "Have you asked Emory Dawson?"

"She said she couldn't help." Though that didn't mean she didn't know. Not that Emory would lie to him, but she would protect Methos's privacy, if he'd asked her to. She'd been good at keeping secrets even before she'd met Joe Dawson; ten years of marriage to a Watcher had just given her extra practice. Had Methos asked her to keep quiet? And if so, why? Duncan hadn't wanted to put Emory on the spot, so he hadn't pressed her for more information. Cassandra was another story. "Do you know where he is?"

"No. I'm sorry, Duncan, I can't help you, either."

"I thought you kept track of him."

"I try," she said dryly. "Sometimes I even succeed. But mostly, I have to wait for him to come to me."

So had Duncan, over the years. He was tired of waiting.

"The last time I saw him was two and a half years ago, at Alex's funeral," she said.

That was the last time Duncan had seen him, too. Methos hadn't come to Susan's funeral; Duncan hadn't known how to reach him. Four days after, flowers had arrived, with a card that read only, "My deepest condolences. M."

"He was living in Toronto then," Cassandra continued, "studying engineering at university, but he finished his degree and left this last May. Amanda might know where he went."

She didn't. Duncan had already asked. "Thanks anyway, Cassandra," he said.

"If he contacts me, I'll tell him you'd like to see him," she offered.

Methos knew that already. Or he should. Duncan let it go with a nod and moved on. "So, what did you and the president have to talk about today?"

She set her pen down and looked directly at him before she answered. "His daughter would like to have a child. He called to see how the fertility research was going."

"And how is it going?"

"Slowly."

"Is that all you talked about?"

"Oh no, Tom and I are old friends. We talked about his dog, his wife, his golf game, and his strategy for reelection in the fall. He's worried about the coalition of Reds and Blues holding together, especially with Texas and New England each threatening to secede because of the other's laws."

"States' rights," commented Duncan sourly. That issue had torn the U.S. apart nearly two hundred years before; it might again.

"Mmm," Cassandra murmured, though whether in agreement or disagreement, Duncan couldn't tell. He fought back a sudden urge to yawn, and Cassandra said, "You must be tired from traveling. Would you like a room to rest in for a few hours, perhaps spend the night? Or two, if you like. You and I can talk more over dinner, and you could play with Alea this afternoon. We also have a fully equipped gym."

"That would be wonderful, thank you." A nap, a playdate with Alea, a brisk stroll around Prague followed by some exercise, then dinner with Cassandra and a place to spend the night. He might even get some holiday shopping done.

"You are always welcome here, Duncan," she said warmly. Cassandra stood then opened the narrow door behind her desk and beckoned to the young woman in the adjoining room. "Sister Janna, would you please escort Mr. MacLeod to a guest room? The third floor."

"Of course, Sister," she said then smiled shyly at Duncan as she opened the door to the hall. "This way."

"I'll see you at dinner, Duncan," Cassandra promised, and she waited until Duncan and Janna were all the way down the hall before she shut her office door. As Cassandra turned around, the narrow door near the bookshelves opened, and Sara stepped into the room. She sat on the edge of Cassandra's desk, her feet swinging, while Cassandra went back to her desk chair.

"So what does Uncle Dunc want from you?" Sara asked, getting right to the heart of things, as usual.

"He's looking for Methos."

Sara's eyebrows went up. "Really?"

"I think Duncan would like to take his mind off Susan, and Methos always gives Duncan plenty to think about."

"Why do you think Methos hasn't been in touch with him?"

"Probably because Methos knows that Duncan needs to think about Susan some more. Six months isn't much time after losing a wife of twenty-three years."

Sara nodded sagely. "And Methos doesn't want to be caught on the rebound. Who does?" She grinned. "Not you, that's for sure."

"Impudent chit," Cassandra retorted.

The grin grew wider. "That means I'm right."

She was, but… "Timing is always important, and between your father and me, with our history…," Cassandra started to explain, but Sara waved it away.

"I know," she said fondly. "You want him to be happy, and you also want him to want you. So you're waiting to see if he's ready. I get it. I'd do the same." Her head tilted inquisitively. "How long will you wait?"

"A few decades, maybe fifty years."

Sara's eyebrows went up again, but she said only, "And if he says no?"

"Look for someone else," Cassandra said with a shrug, but she already knew it wouldn't be easy. A few decades ago she'd gone through the database and made a list of Immortals she found attractive who were at least a few hundred years old, decent, trustworthy, and who might be willing to accept her past and were willing to deal with the Voice. The list was not long. Duncan and Connor were both on it, as was Methos. She'd crossed his name off then written it back in. Twice. Then she crossed it off again. She was not ready yet.

Sara had started matching orphan lids to topless pens, looking up occasionally from beneath her bangs. "Do you think Duncan's ready? For sex? Or for a relationship?"

"Maybe. People grieve in different ways. They heal in different ways. Sex can be healing, and Duncan seems to find it so. Within a month after his long-time lover Tessa died in the 1990s, he'd been with two women."

"Those Watchers kept good records, didn't they," Sara observed. "Well, he turned down a woman today. Amshula nearly ambushed him on the way here, and even though he ducked her invitation—twice—she still gave him her card. Maybe she should be reassigned to the fourth floor."

"A courtesan requires empathy as well as enthusiasm," Cassandra reminded Sara. "Amshula's psych eval was accurate; she belongs where she is, with the Guardians. In fact, she's just been selected for advanced paramilitary training at Themis Institute. She'll settle down in a few years."

Sara looked skeptical, but she didn't argue the point, instead going back to her uncle's love life, or lack thereof. "Still ... even when Uncle Duncan is ready, he's been married so long, and he likes women so much. I can't see him with a man."

"I can," Cassandra said. "At least this one." She'd seen them together only a few times, but whenever they spoke of each other, she'd heard the intensity in their voices and seen the yearning in their eyes. A cautious yearning in Methos, an uncertain yearning in Duncan, but yearning all the same. But before his quarter century with a family of his own, Duncan hadn't been ready. He still wasn't, not quite, not with the grieving still undone. But soon.

"Does that bother you?" Sara asked. "I mean, not him and a man, but him and Methos?"

"Actually, I rather like it. Methos will keep Duncan busy, and Duncan will keep Methos in line. They balance each other well."

Sara was still shaking her head at it. "Mr. Methos and Uncle Dunc…"

Cassandra moved on. "Duncan mentioned a shooting followed by a beheading in Fiji. I told him I'd look to see if there were a pattern. Can you help?"

"Sure, I'll set the parameters and run the database search." Sara set aside the now-organized pens, and her feet stopped their swinging. "I was reading Grace's report on the sterility plague while you talked to Duncan. She says the new vaccine looks promising."

"It still needs to be tested, and that takes years."

"I don't have years," Sara said, tossing her braid back over her shoulder, her mouth set in that stubborn line Cassandra knew very well. "I'm going to volunteer."

"Caorran—," Cassandra began, using her special name, her name of power, the name Cassandra had gifted her with when Sara had turned seven years old, on a winter day of silent voices and quiet snow.

"I've dreamed of my son, Cassandra!" Sara said, that power humming within her now. "I've seen him, alive and well, and standing between me and Daniel." She leaned forward eagerly. "I want another child."

So did many women. "It could be an adopted son," Cassandra pointed out.

"He's not."

Cassandra paused. "The dream is that clear?"

"Yes."

Cassandra's dreams had seldom been that clear. But each talent was unique, and Caorran's foresight had been uncannily accurate before. Cassandra had hopes that the tendency would breed true, in Alea and in Colin's son, and the offspring of Paul, the half-brother, and the two half-sisters in England, too. And to have a boy from Caorran… Yes, indeed. "You should discuss it with Daniel first," Cassandra said.

"I'm going to, as soon as he gets home." She stretched her arms behind her head, cracking joints and flexing muscles. "Council meeting tonight. Full regalia, right?"

She nodded. "It's Nina's investiture as Healer. It'll be good to have nine members again."

"Yeah, no more tied votes," Sara said, but Cassandra knew the number nine had more benefits than that. Three-filled three, nine months from conception to birth, nine muses of poetry and dance…

"At least we don't call it the Gray Council," Sara said. "And we don't have to wear long gray robes with enormous hoods, and we have chairs so we can sit down."

Cassandra laughed aloud, remembering a television show from forty years before. "Your mother let you watch too much TV."

"Babylon 5 was on DVD," Sara protested. "Just like Star Trek. Those spotlights on the Gray Council reminded me of transporter beams. Colin and I were always waiting for Scotty to beam them up."

"What a cross-over that would be," Cassandra said then continued in a horrible Scottish accent, "Captain, I dinna have coordinates for that alternate universe programmed in ma transporter! It'll blow up the ship, fer sure."

"Och, ma wee puir bairrrns," Sara joined in, clasping a hand over her heart. "Ma engines, ma bonny, bonny engines." She fell over sideways on the desk and croaked, "I'm dead, Jim."

"Then why are you still talking?"

"Oh, come on, Cassandra," she said, sitting up again and pulling her legs up so she could wrap her arms about her knees. "Nobody really dies on shows. They always come back somehow. Like Immortals."

Except it wasn't "always," even for Immortals.

Sara knew that, too. "Who do you miss?" she asked softly. "Which Immortals do you wish were still alive?"

"Only the Immortals?"

She shrugged. "You know we're going to die; that's a given. So you're not in for the long haul. But with Immortals, you might think, 'This person I can know for centuries, maybe for my whole life.' That's got to be different."

"Yes," Cassandra agreed. "There's that chance, that hope for the future."

"So who do you miss?" Sara asked again.

"Oh my." Cassandra leaned back in her chair, thinking. "The lady of the temple, most of all. She was my first teacher, my mother in a way. Kalia, a priestess there, a sister to me. I could use her help now. Ramirez, of course, my fourth husband. I miss what might have been with Rebecca; we met only once." Cassandra suddenly wondered, as she had not for centuries, of the ancient order and its appointed task. Gone now, its sacred talismans lost or destroyed, its charge forgotten even by her. But that was the past, and she was creating a future. And Sara was waiting. "I miss Orlath," Cassandra concluded. "She had such brilliance, such joy."

"Your student?"

"Yes, but not in Immortality. Ceirdwyn was her teacher for that. I taught Orlath pottery, weaving, music. We lived in a monastery in Ireland, before the Vikings came for the gold." Before Roland came for her. Cassandra suppressed a shudder and banished the memories, then sat up straight. "Thank you, Sara, for asking that. Sometimes we Immortals focus on old enemies so much we forget about our old friends."

"It's neat to hear about them. I think I'll ask my dad the same thing, when I see him over the holidays."

"I'm glad you've decided to go," Cassandra said.

"Me, too." Sara hopped off the desk and headed for the door.

"Sara," Cassandra called, and the young woman turned around. "I don't think Duncan needed to know I was talking with the American president."

That stubborn look was back again. "I think he did."

"Your father has appointed himself my guardian. Your mother set Methos on my trail. I do not need your Uncle Duncan looking over my shoulder, too."

Sara cocked her head to one side, looking very much like her mother often had. "When I was six, you told me, 'Need and want are not the same.'"

Cassandra forced herself to confront the truth of that. She didn't want Duncan looking over her shoulder, but in Sara's opinion, she needed him to. And maybe Sara was right. Like mother like daughter, again.

"I've always remembered that, Cassandra, because you were right." Sara waved cheerfully then left the room.

"Impudent chit," Cassandra said once more, but she was smiling, and the words were full of love

* * *

><p><em><strong>Continued in "The French Connection," wherein Methos learns a thing or two<strong>_


	3. The French Connection

**THE FRENCH CONNECTION**

**Frankfurt, Germany: Friday 14 December 2029**

* * *

><p>"That alloy is susceptible to microscopic stress fractures under those conditions," Hans pointed out, and three of the others at the table nodded intently. Michelle sighed.<p>

Kyle took a slow and thoughtful drink of beer. "What about a preceramic polymer coating?"

"Siloxane?" Kirstin suggested.

"Or maybe silicon nitride," Claude replied. "A binder would reduce void formation during manufacture, though the material would need reinfiltration."

"That can get expensive. Maybe, if we..." Kirstin started sketching a diagram on a cocktail napkin, only to have Michelle reach across the table and take it from her hands.

"Stop that," Michelle said sternly. "We've been designing this anti-grav engine for more than a year, and we work on it every single day. It's Friday night. We're in a bar. We have beer. There is music." She waved her hand behind her at the people the dance floor and the trio of musicians in the corner, who were pounding out a song from half a century ago while their singer wailed, "Don't touch me, please. I can not stand the way you tease!"

"On Monday," Michelle concluded, "we go back to the Research Center and we design the ship that will take us to the stars. But tonight, we have fun."

Kyle laughed and lifted his beer to her in salute. "Well said!" That had been his philosophy for many years. Enjoy now, and work another day.

Claude followed his example and saluted too, then set his empty mug down with a solid thump. "Tonight, we drink!"

"Tonight, we dance," Kirstin added, with a saucy smile and a twinkle in her eye. She offered her hand to Hans, and he stood with a quick bow and went with her to the dance floor.

Kyle offered his hand to Michelle, but she shook her head. "Not this song." He didn't ask her why, simply nodded and turned slightly to watch the dancers. Hans and Kirstin had traded partners already; it was that kind of dance and that kind of crowd: young, unattached, and frenetic. Their energy had an air of desperation, rather like the macabre balls during the years of the Black Death. He turned back to Michelle and Claude and joined their conversation about time-shift anomalies in the various Star Trek alternate universes—an engineer's idea of nerdvana. When the song ended, Kirstin and Hans came back with more beer and happily joined in.

Yet even the fascination of sci-fi occasionally paled. Kirstin was expounding on her theory that the gate at the City on the Edge of Forever was actually a Star Gate and the guardian was an ascended being, when the men abruptly stopped listening. A woman had walked into the bar.

No, not walked. This woman prowled. Above high-heeled sandals, black leather laces crisscrossed their way up ankle, calf, and knee. Bare thighs gleamed beneath a very short skirt of green, and a sleeveless vest of black leather with only two buttons exposed arms, midriff, and back, but just a tantalizing glimpse of breasts. Her left hand was at her shoulder, holding onto a dark green cape that floated behind her like water and shifted at every breath. Cloud cloth, they called it, the latest release from the Ephesus line. At the corner of each eye she had drawn the eye of Horus in black eyeliner, and her lips were the color of blood. So were her nails. Long, red tresses streamed down her back, and her only jewelry was a choker of green satin ribbon wound around her neck. She paused at the edge of the dance floor, a faint smile playing about her lips as she scanned the crowd.

"Looks like Cat Woman forgot her whip," Kirstin remarked and turned back to her drink.

Michelle punched Hans on the shoulder. "Breathe, man. Breathe." He nodded, but neither he nor Claude looked away.

They didn't need to. The woman was heading towards their table, apparently having found who she was looking for. The three men stood as she came near, and Michelle and Kirstin rolled their eyes at each other. Kyle took a step away from his chair and reminded himself to breathe.

"Philippe!" she exclaimed, her voice low and throaty and filled with the memory of silken nights and wanton days—and the promise of more to come.

"Serena," he greeted her, swallowing in a throat gone dry. To either side of him, he was vaguely aware of the dumbfounded expressions of his co-workers. Serena smiled, slowly, lusciously, then flowed into his arms. Her mouth tasted of brandy, and her hair felt like silk.

"Who the hell is Philippe?" he dimly heard Hans say. "And how does Kyle know her?"

"Extremely well, it seems," Michelle's voice said dryly.

Kyle (a.k.a. Methos a.k.a. Philippe Jarbeau a.k.a. more than a thousand other names) didn't respond. His tongue and lips were occupied, and his hands and arms and all his senses were filled with the delectably insatiable Serena.

Enjoy now, and work another day.

* * *

><p>Perhaps he should change that to: Enjoy the night and the day. And another. Finally, on Tuesday morning, he said, "I have to go to work."<p>

Serena stretched, in the only way she could, with her toes pointed and her arms over her head. Her movements tightened the green satin ribbon that outlined each breast and wound once about her throat. Her green eyes blinked lazily. "Why?"

"I'm the lead engineer on a project. We need to finish by spring, and my team needs me."

She pouted prettily. "I need you."

Methos leaned over and lightly traced a finger down the bridge of her nose, across her lips, pausing on the lower one long enough for her to open her mouth and swirl the tip of her tongue across his finger. He moved on, following the curve of her chin and skimming across the delicate skin of her throat, ending in the hollow where her heartbeat showed. His fingertip caught in the ribbon and twisted it tight just for a moment, and she drew in a sharp hiss of breath. On his finger moved, sliding in a straight line between her breasts and onto the softer skin below. Then lower, and lower, more and more slowly, then lower still...

Her eyes were closed now, her breathing shallow, and her creamy skin flushed. "Philippe..."

"Time for work," he said cheerfully and got off the bed.

"Philippe!"

He held up two shirts. "What do you think? Maroon or green?" She didn't answer, pouting not so prettily now, so he finished dressing without her help. "I'll be back around five," he told her, with one hand on the doorknob.

"I want to see where you work," she announced.

He'd been expecting her to protest his exit, but he hadn't expected to hear that. "It's a research lab. Lots of computers, equipment, machines…"

For once, her smile was amused instead of enticing. "Yes. For designing anti-grav engines using dark-energy. I know. My company is one of the Research Center's sponsors."

"Your company?"

"Kerametal."

Kerametal, the company that made the preceramic polymer coating he'd suggested on Friday night. Kerametal, the company for innovative technology in materials engineering, and the company that Michelle and Hans were both hoping to get jobs with once the project was done. Methos came back over and sat on the edge of the bed.

"I'm not just a pretty face with a gorgeous body, you know," Serena informed him, then stretched once again to remind him just how gorgeous her body was.

"Clearly," he agreed, while still enjoying the show.

"I'll go home for some clothes then meet you after lunch at the Research Center. Yes?"

"Yes," he agreed again.

"One more thing before you leave for work, Philippe."

"Yes?" She didn't answer, and he finally dragged his gaze back to her face.

"Untie me."

* * *

><p>At the center, conversations stopped when he entered a room. Methos had expected that. Calling in "sick" on Monday had given the rumor mill plenty of time and even more material. He'd also expected the sly grins, ribald comments, and clandestine questions from the men. He rather enjoyed the speculative glances and smiles from the women. They hadn't had much interest in Kyle Winston, polite yet boring Canadian engineer, before. But, they were obviously thinking, if a Cat Woman without a whip is willing to fall into his arms—and spend three days and nights in his bed— there must be more to this fellow than meets the eye.<p>

So true.

Methos got through the morning with bland smiles and a frequently repeated explanation: "We were in theater together at university. Philippe was my name in a play."

So not true.

After lunch, Methos met Serena in the lobby. She'd donned the sensible outfit of a business woman and pulled her hair into a neat braid coiled at the base of her neck. She was even wearing horn-rimmed glasses.

And, Methos was willing to bet a month's salary, underneath it all she was wearing exotic and expensive lingerie that could only be purchased by appointment in a private boutique in Berlin.

Or perhaps she was wearing nothing at all.

He looked up from his speculative perusal, only to met her amused and knowing eyes. "Dr. Winston," she greeted him politely. "I believe you will be showing me your facilities?"

"I'd be delighted."

It was in the machine shop, between the drill press and the water abrasion tank, that she popped the question. "Will you go into space with me?"

"Space?" Someday, yes, he wanted to. That was why he'd started working here, so that in the future he could see new worlds. But that was a long-term goal; this generation of anti-grav engines was good only for moon launches. Mars and the moons of Jupiter were still a few years away. The stars were farther still. "I'm an engineer, not an astronaut."

"Nor am I. But they do sell seats."

"Right. For how many million?"

"Seventy-two. I can get us tickets."

"Right." She said nothing, merely raised an eyebrow in challenge. Methos ran his hand through his hair and said, "You want to spend one hundred forty-four million to go up in a space ship, orbit the moon, and then come back down."

"Yes."

"Lot of money to look out the window."

"Oh, we wouldn't be spending all the time looking out the window."

"Ah."

"Think of it, Philippe," she said, stepping closer to him and laying one hand on his chest, just above his heart. "All that money will help fund the project, while you and I can have a private adventure."

"Mmm."

She smiled up at him through dark lashes then whispered the most seductive words of all: "It will be new."

* * *

><p><em><strong>Continued in "Reborn", where in the MacLeods go a-wandering<strong>_


	4. Reborn

**REBORN**

**The MacLeod Farm, Highlands of Scotland: 1 January 2030**

* * *

><p>"Happy birthday, Dad," Sara said one more time and kissed him on the cheek. His skin was cold against her lips, chilled by the winter wind that swept down from the hills to Loch Shiel below. "And happy new year."<p>

"Thanks, sweetheart," he said and kissed her forehead, gently. "I'm glad you came." Then he turned to Daniel, who was swinging the last of the luggage into the car boot. "You got everything?"

"I think that's it," Daniel said. "Three suitcases full of clothes, two full of boots and hats and gloves, one full of Christmas presents…" He shook his head in mock dismay, squinting against the winter sunshine. "There may not be enough room for us on the airplane."

Alea reached up and tugged at her dad's coat, her dark blue eyes full of worry, her black hair hidden beneath a red cap. A purple pig was clutched firmly under her arm. "There'll be enough room for Wiglet, won't there, Daddy?"

"Yes, Alea," Daniel said, scooping her—with Wiglet—up into his arms. "We'll make sure there's room for Wiglet, even if we have to leave some of your presents behind."

"Daddy!" she squealed. "We can't leave my presents."

"No?"

"No! They're Christmas presents. You have to keep them. That's the rule."

"Well, if that's the rule…"

"It is," Alea proclaimed, with all the totalitarian assurance of a three-year-old.

"Ok. We'll keep all your presents, and Wiglet, too." He winked at Sara then tossed Alea over his shoulder, making her squeal again, this time in delight. "Last look?"

"Last look," Sara agreed, a tradition they'd started on their honeymoon, when he'd left his shoes at a hotel and the next day she'd left her hairbrush on a train. Sara called after him, "Make sure Alea—"

"—uses the bathroom, I know," he finished for her, and carried Alea through the garden and into the gray two-story farmhouse, bouncing her on his shoulders all the way.

Sara could remember Dad doing the exact same thing to her.

"You cold?" Dad asked, when she shivered. "We can wait in the cottage."

It wasn't far, just a little ways down the graveled drive, but Sara said, "I'm fine." She turned to look at the hills far across the loch, breathing deeply. "I like the smell of the air. I miss it."

Dad nodded and turned with her, laying his arm across her shoulders. The bitter wind ruffled his thick, gray hair.

In September, when he'd visited her in Prague, he'd shown her a picture of himself with short, brown hair and a beard. "Duncan and I camped out a lot," he'd explained. "Dye jobs are no fun in a mountain stream." He'd rubbed his knuckles along his jaw. "Stopped shaving, too."

"Like old times," Sara had put in. Very old times.

He'd nodded then hidden the picture away. "Daniel and Alea shouldn't see me like this. It would be… awkward."

"Yeah," she'd agreed lightly, yet awkward herself. He'd had gray hair since she was a teenager, and without it, and without his unnecessary bifocals, he didn't quite look like Dad.

But now, with gray hair again and with his glasses on, he did. Sara reached up and laid her hand atop his, and he tightened his grip into a quick hug. "I'm glad you came," he said again.

"Me, too. I had to, didn't I?" She met his eyes straight on. "It's the last family Christmas." Just as Duncan couldn't be her Uncle Duncan in public anymore, soon her dad soon couldn't be "Dad."

"Yeah," he said softly. "It is," and at those words, her eyes suddenly filled with tears. "Sara, I'm sorry."

"It's not your fault," she answered right away, because she knew that he had never asked to be Immortal, and he didn't want it to be this way, either, and life wasn't ever going to be fair. The secret of immortality had to be kept. She'd known that since she was nine. Mom and Dad and Cassandra had explained it to her and Colin then, and Aunt Rachel had talked about it, too. They had all kept the secret, all these years, and Sara had to keep it, too. "It's just… how it is." She wiped at her eyes and made herself smile. "I love you, Dad," she promised then added a pledge from her schoolgirl days. "Forever and for always."

"I love you, too, princess," Dad said, holding her close. He hadn't called her that in a while.

Sara closed her eyes and inhaled the scent of him—the bitterness of coffee, the sweaty tang of horses, the hint of lemon aftershave. Then a door slammed in the distance, and Alea and Daniel came down the drive, followed by John and Gina and their two kids, Colin and Oona and their baby, Graham, and three dogs, and Duncan and Rachel, all coming to bid Sara and her family farewell. Sara kissed her dad on the cheek again and blinked back yet more tears. "Goodbye, Daddy."

* * *

><p>That afternoon, Connor joined Duncan at the living room window in the cottage, and handed him a glass of whisky. They stood in silence, drinking, looking past the rain-flattened pasture to the gray waters of the loch far below. Gray clouds shifted slowly with the wind above. Finally, Connor asked, "Want to go for a walk?"<p>

"Sure," Duncan answered. "Where?"

"Mount Everest."

Duncan's glass stopped halfway to his lips. "You're kidding."

Connor shrugged. "You got something better to do?"

Duncan glanced behind them at the cottage: the shelves of neatly arranged books, the forlorn Christmas tree in the corner, the unwashed lunch dishes in the sink, the sofa bed still unmade. Connor had been living here for nearly three years; Duncan had been visiting for nearly two weeks, and for both of them, it was time to go. "No."

And so they went. First to the peak of Mount Everest, then from Death Valley to Mount Whitney, the lowest point to the highest point in the state of South California. When they reached the top of Mount Whitney, they turned around and hiked back to Death Valley. Then they headed north. The glaciers of the Canadian Rockies beckoned, and Connor and Duncan had nothing better to do. They paid the appropriate bribes to the guards on both sides of the border near Lake Tahoe, then filed their paperwork and paid more bribes at the Canadian border. After the glaciers, they continued north as far as they could go. Duncan suggested the Amazon rainforest next, and then Connor decided on Mount Kilimanjaro. Fujiyama followed. After that Connor said he was tired of walking, so they got a boat.

On the final leg of their sail around the world, Connor suggested they try the Sahara desert. Duncan leaned his back against the Tamarind's cabin wall. "I'd rather die of cold than dehydration. How about the North Pole?"

Connor grinned, his teeth very white in his sun-darkened and wind-roughened face, and he hung onto the rail with one hand. "We did that already."

"Oh, yeah," Duncan agreed. "I forgot. Two years ago, wasn't it?"

"Three," Connor corrected.

"Ok. How about the South Pole? Penguins instead of polar bears."

Now Connor laughed. "I never knew you could run so fast."

Duncan grinned in return. "But I still had a hard time catching up with you." He propped his feet on a coil of rope and squinted up at the blazing sun high overhead. "Cassandra walked across a desert, you know, to get away from the Horsemen. But that was probably the Arabian desert, not the Sahara."

Connor nodded and stared out to sea, the breeze ruffling the sun-bleached strands of his hair.

"You've been thinking about her, haven't you?" Duncan observed, for he knew his kinsman well. The silences had grown deeper again, but now the unfocused stares were those of a man looking more to the future than to the past. Cassandra had been thinking about them; care packages had awaited them in nearly every port—boxes filled with books and magazine clips (including two reports of people being both shot and beheaded, one in Siberia and one in India), musical recordings by Duncan's friend Claudia Jardine, Highland whisky and food delicacies, puzzles and games, pictures of their grown children and growing grandchildren, and crayoned drawings and finger-paintings galore.

Connor shrugged. "Sailors always think about women." He turned and observed wickedly, "Most of us anyway. You've been thinking about Methos."

Duncan didn't bother to deny it, but he did add, "And Amanda. And Claudia, and Robert and Gina, and other friends. My granddaughter will be fourteen in September; I'd like to see her again."

"And Sara's new baby is five weeks old. I'd like to see him, too." Connor looked out to sea. "And Rachel."

Duncan counted back the years and realized with a jolt that Rachel was going to be ninety-four in two months' time. Connor needed to go to her, and soon. Duncan stretched as he stood then joined Connor at the rail. "We've been away long enough, Connor. I'm ready to go back."

Connor nodded slowly then quoted: "And so we'll go no more a roving / So late into the night."

Duncan knew that poem, both by heart and by a head. The immortal words of Byron lived on. Connor was waiting expectantly, for quoting poetry back and forth was a game he and Duncan often played. Duncan finished the stanza: "Though the heart be still as loving / And the moon be still as bright." Connor didn't come back with the next line, and Duncan gladly gave up the game.

But that night, as Duncan lay in his bunk and stared at the thin ribbons of moonlight streaming across his hands, the words came to him unbidden, unwanted and reborn.

/ For the sword outwears its sheath,

/ And the soul wears out the breast.

Duncan turned his back on the moonlight and curled on his side, the pillow cool beneath his head. Through the porthole, he could see Connor at the rail, keeping watch. Duncan whispered the final couplet of that verse to himself, above the wash of the waves.

"And the heart must pause to breathe / And Love itself have rest."

It was time to stop wandering. It was time to live. Duncan rolled over and slept soundly, rocked by the waves.

* * *

><p><strong>Sara and Daniel's apartment, Prague: Friday 17 July 2034<strong>

* * *

><p>It was Daniel who first spotted the notice of their deaths. "Sara!" he called, and at the note of fear and distress in his voice, she dropped her book on the couch and left Alea playing on the floor and Will asleep in the bassinet to join Daniel in their bedroom, where he sat in front of a display screen, a news item highlighted in blue.<p>

* * *

><p><em><strong>Boat Found Adrift; Piracy Feared<strong>_

_**The Southeast Asian Times**_

_Kulang, 15 July: The 17m ketch Tamarind was found abandoned and adrift in the Timor Sea on Wednesday, say Indonesian port authorities. The boat, of Bahamian registry, was owned by Connor MacLeod of Scotland, who was reported to have been sailing around the world with a friend, Mark Johnson of New Zealand. No bodies were discovered, but bloodstains on deck and in the cabin lead officials to suspect foul play. The life boat was not deployed, and the last log entry was made on 3 July_—

* * *

><p>"No," Sara said, the letters on the screen blurring into a smear of white and blue. "That's impossible."<p>

"Sara, I'm so sorry," Daniel said, standing to gather her into his arms.

"No," she said again, standing stiff against him. "You don't understand. They can't be dead."

"Sara, love… It's been almost two weeks. With no boat? The sharks—"

"No," she said flatly and pulled away. "I'm calling Colin."

But Colin hadn't heard anything. Neither had Rachel or John. Sara had to break the news to each of them. Sara called Cassandra next. "Are they dead?" she demanded.

"What?" Cassandra replied, sounding sleepy and confused. "Who?"

"The Tamarind was abandoned and set adrift two weeks ago," Sara explained for the fourth time. "Daniel just saw the report on the web. Haven't you read it yet?" She knew Cassandra's newscanner was set to flag any mention of Connor MacLeod, as was theirs.

"No, not today. I just got back from the Hague. I'm sorry, Sara, I don't—"

"Are they dead?" Sara repeated, her frustration and panic growing.

Cassandra said nothing for several seconds, while Sara felt each beat of her heart inside her chest. "It's possible," Cassandra said finally. "Otherwise, they would have contacted—"

"I know," Sara interrupted. Only they hadn't, not for two weeks, not anyone. Which meant…

"I don't think they're dead," Cassandra said calmly. "I don't sense it. I haven't dreamed it. Have you?"

Sara bit into her lower lip. "No." She hadn't had any special dreams since she'd gotten pregnant with Will. There'd been none during her other pregnancies, either. The dreams would probably start again soon.

"Good," Cassandra was saying, then concluded briskly, "So we wait. And Sara…"

"What?"

"This needed to happen, you know."

Sara knew. She'd known it for years. Every generation or so, Immortals needed to disappear, to cut all ties, so they could take a new name and start a new life. But it didn't have to happen like this.

* * *

><p>Five days later, Cassandra called her Sara to her office. "They're alive," Cassandra said, and Sara sagged back against the door, once again aware of the beating of her heart. "They're in Darwin, Australia."<p>

"Why'd he call you?"

"He didn't want Daniel to have any chance of intercepting the message."

"Daniel," Sara murmured. He'd been so sweet, so supportive, so certain they were dead, while Sara had been refusing to cry. "He's been trying to convince me to have a memorial service."

Cassandra nodded. "That's still not a bad idea."

"But, I can't— Now that I know…" Sara smacked the heavy wooden door with her fist in frustration. "I'm not that good a liar."

Cassandra just nodded again. "If Daniel thinks you've accepted the deaths as real, he'll probably let the service go. He only suggested it for your sake."

"I know." Daniel was just trying to help, to help her come to terms with her father's disappearance. And although Connor MacLeod wasn't dead, her father was certainly gone.

Sara didn't truly understand that, though, not deep down, not really. Not until four days later when her house computer chimed to tell her someone was at the door. The monitor showed a young man with hair just long enough to curl, bleached blond by the sun, and a darker, short-trimmed beard. His skin was tanned to a deep brown. A college student, perhaps, judging from the knapsack in one hand and the brightly colored clothes, plus the earring in his left ear and the two gold chains around his neck. "Yes?" she said into the speaker.

"Sara," he said, and then she knew.

"Sweet goddess above," she breathed and ran to the living room to yank open her door. "Come in!" she said. "Oh, come in," and then she was in his arms, safe and at home. He didn't smell of horses now, and his aftershave wasn't lemony, but this was the man she had loved her entire life, and she would know him anywhere.

Then she hit him in the shoulder, hard, and then she thumped him again. "Where were you?" she demanded. "What took you so long?"

"I'm sorry." The apology was quick but sincere. "Our lifeboat was blown off course."

She shook her head, confused. "The lifeboat was still on the Tamarind."

He dropped his knapsack on the living room floor. "We had two."

"Oh. The blood?"

He winced, rubbing his left shoulder. "Duncan got me a good one." He grinned suddenly, the earring and the tan giving him a pirate's wolfish glee. "And then I got him."

She almost grinned back, but then remembered what he had done. "Why didn't you warn us?" she asked, and was embarrassed when it came out more of a whine than a plea.

All traces of his grin disappeared. "I did, Sara. Years ago."

He had, yes, but—

"You got married, Sara. Colin did, too. You can't have Daniel and Oona asking about me, year after year, and wondering why I never visit anymore, or why they can't see me."

John's wife wouldn't ask; John had told Gina about Immortals years ago. Sara still remembered how upset—furious, really—their dad had been. And that, of course, was why she and Colin had kept quiet.

"This will be easier, in the long run," he continued.

Ok, maybe… but it hadn't been easy up to now. But who ever said life was going to be easy? Or fair? Sara took a deep breath and welcomed him again. "Come on in," she said, leading the way to the kitchen. "Would you like some tea?"

"Sure, but first I'd like to see my grandson."

Sara took him into the bedroom, where Will lay sleeping on his back on the futon. He'd outgrown the bassinet only a few days ago.

"So this is the miracle baby," he said, bending down to peer at the tiny form.

"Yes, he is," Sara agreed, marveling again at the perfection of her son. Both of Will's fists were up, raised in a victorious boxer's stance, and just barely reaching to his ears. Straight black hair spiked in all directions from his head. "He's worth it all."

"Is the treatment that bad?"

Sara grimaced, remembering. "Oh, I was so sick. The treatment suppresses the immune system, so it won't attack the baby, but then it doesn't attack other things, either. That went on for months, until I finally got pregnant, and then I was in the isolation ward for nine months, and I missed Alea and Daniel so much, and I still got sick, even in there, and of course I'm not—" Not that young anymore, she would have said to anyone else, but not to him. Thirty-seven wasn't old, she knew. But it wasn't young.

He'd left the baby and come to stand by her side. "How are you now?"

"Fine." Except for being tired all the time, but all new mothers were, and that cough that came and went wasn't much of a bother. And there'd been that fever a few weeks ago, but that happened sometimes. "I'm fine."

"And Daniel?"

"Fine." Her gaze went back to her son. "He's really happy we have Will." Though Daniel hadn't always been happy along the way. As the years of the treatment wore on, his early support had turned into doubt, then worry, then frustration and fear. He hadn't liked using Sara's money to pay for the procedures, either. But Sara had persevered, in spite of his misgivings, in spite of her illnesses, and now they had a beautiful baby boy. "Alea loves him, too. She's a wonderful big sister."

"And you're a wonderful mother," he said. "I'm proud of you, Sara."

A day ago, an hour ago, she would have straightened up and beamed at him for saying those words, and she would have answered, "Thanks, Dad." But now she just said, "Thanks," with a smile. "Tea?"

They went back to the kitchen, where he sat at the table, watching, while Sara pulled out two mugs from the corner cabinet. "Daniel just took Alea to school," she said, measuring the water from their weekly drinking ration.

"I know."

"You know?" she repeated, turning around to look at him. But of course he knew. He'd been outside, watching, waiting until Daniel and Alea left, waiting for Sara to be alone. She set the kettle on the stove and turned the gas on high.

"I'll be in town for about a week," he said, offering her a few days, a scrap of his time, when he'd been traveling with Duncan for four years. "I'll come over when Daniel goes to work, or we can meet at my hotel or in a park."

Like a secret lover. Like a dirty little affair. Sara saw the future clearly enough now; she didn't need to see it in her dreams. Her father would never come to a family birthday party, never visit for Christmas or a weekend, never call her at home, never send pictures, never again be a regular, normal part of her life. Her father was gone. She understood that now.

"Daniel might recognize me; I shouldn't see him," he went on. "But I can see Alea. And Will."

Sara nodded, setting sugar and milk on the table. "What should they call you?" Obviously not Grandpa. Alea and Will would never have a grandfather.

"How about Cousin Mike?"

She nodded again as she reached for the spoons. "Is that your name now?"

"Michael Connor Audren."

Sara kept nodding as she sat down, staring at the stranger who had her father's eyes.

"Sara," he said, reaching across the table for her hand. "You've always known that immortality requires keeping secrets."

And keeping secrets required telling lies. Sara had always known that, too. "It's ok." She smiled again, another lie. "It'll be fine."

* * *

><p>When Methos read of the demise of Mark Johnson, he smiled and drank a toast to Duncan MacLeod. It was time to find his old friend.<p>

* * *

><p><em><strong>Continued in "Methuselah's Gift," wherein Methos makes a suggestion or two<br>**_


	5. Methuselah's Gift

**METHUSELAH'S GIFT**

* * *

><p><strong>Duncan MacLeod's Apartment, Australia: November 2034<strong>

* * *

><p>Methos celebrated the successful launch of the Mars fleet by taking a long-postponed vacation. He found Duncan in the Land Down Under, living in an apartment near the beach. "Drowning once wasn't enough for you?" Methos asked. The nearby waves lay lulled and gleaming in the sunshine, but dark in their depths. Not many cared to gamble with the weather, not these days.<p>

Duncan just laughed and opened wide the door. "Methos." His smile was golden, his eyes darkly alive, his beauty the best of dark and bright. He bowed and swept out his hand in invitation. "Come in._ Mi casa es su casa_."

Methos grinned and came on in. "In that case, where's the beer?"

* * *

><p>"You're going where?" Methos asked that night over dinner, a shrimp and pasta dish with cream sauce and dill. Methos was on his second helping; Duncan hadn't lost his touch with food.<p>

"New Zealand. It's Krista's birthday on Saturday, and she has the lead role in a school ballet on Friday night. I bought my ticket back in May. I'd like to see my granddaughter again. And Paula and Tom."

"MacLeod—" Methos stopped in exasperation. "That is your name now, right?" It wasn't a question; it was a reminder. "Mark Johnson is dead, MacLeod. You killed him, as well you should have. Now let him rest in peace. And let his family be at peace, too."

"They won't see me," he said, stubborn as always. "I'll stay in the background."

"Spying."

"Watching," he corrected.

"The way you watched your parents, after you were banished from Glenfinnan? Longing for the life you could no longer have?"

"I know better now," Duncan retorted, his jaw tight. "I've done it often enough."

"You've walked away from lives, yes. Walked away from jobs, homes, friends, yes. But you've never walked away from your family before, not while they were still alive, not since that first time." He leaned forward to plead, as he had pleaded with this man before, "Let it go, MacLeod." Let the past go, so that other things might come to be.

Duncan stood and started gathering the dishes. "It's just this once, Methos. One last time. It'll be all right. Even if they do see me, they won't recognize me."

He went into the kitchen then, so he didn't see Methos's slow nod, and he didn't hear him say, "That makes it even worse."

* * *

><p>After Duncan returned from New Zealand, he was mostly silent for the first two days. That evening, as they sat on the beach and watched the silver flashes of the waves, he said, "Doesn't it get tiresome? Being right?"<p>

Methos's smile didn't hide his sigh. "Being right isn't the problem. It's being ignored."

"Yeah," Duncan agreed softly, remembering certain episodes with Richie and with Amanda and even a few with Methos himself, and with other people through the years. "To Mark Johnson," Duncan said as he lifted his whisky glass. "May he rest in peace."

"I'll drink to that," Methos said, and they did. "To Duncan MacLeod," Methos proposed next. "May he live in peace."

Duncan couldn't drink to himself, but he could easily agree with the second half of the toast. "To peace," Duncan said, and they drank again.

"So," Methos said, "what is Duncan MacLeod going to do with his new life?"

Duncan had been thinking about that. He was tired of wandering with nothing to do. He wanted to make a difference in people's lives. "Search and rescue," he announced. "In January, I start helicopter school in France."

"Very noble," Methos said, without even a hint of sarcasm. His eyes were dark in the still, moonless night.

"Another toast," Duncan proposed. "To good friends."

"To good friends." Methos drained his glass and poured them each another shot. They leaned back on their elbows, watching the stars above the sea and listening to the waves.

"Where were you?" Duncan asked, just a simple question, not an accusation or a demand. He could ask it that way now. "After—"

"—after Susan died," Methos finished for him, and there was a rustle of cloth as he settled himself. "You needed to grieve, MacLeod. You needed to rage and weep and curse the very earth and sky."

He'd done exactly that. "So you left me alone to say goodbye."

Methos smiled again, wry and wise. "I didn't want you cursing me."

"I did anyway." He'd cursed every Immortal he knew, including himself.

"Yes, but I wasn't around to hear it and curse you back." He grinned this time. "That's Connor's job. And I'm sure he did it well."

Duncan had to grin, too. "That he did."

"Where's your kinsman now?" Methos asked.

Duncan tossed back his whisky, tasting a whiff of smoke over dark honey as heat spread deep within. "Living with Rachel, until he has to say goodbye." He breathed in slowly, to better savor the warmth that lingered after the bitterness was gone.

* * *

><p><strong>Cornwall, England: 1 Jan 2037<strong>

* * *

><p>"Happy birthday, Connor," Rachel said, and he smiled and thanked her, and they ate lemon cake together in the dining room of her new house. A centuries-old house really, one of the countryside cottages England was famous for, not far from where she'd gone to boarding school as a girl, but a new house for her.<p>

"I want to go back to Cornwall," she'd said, when the autumn weather began again in New York City. Rachel and Connor had had a lovely spring, just the two of them, and that summer John and his family had come for a visit, so that the house had been full of noise and laughter, but it went silent once again, save for the hiss of cold rain against dirty window panes, and the echo of empty rooms.

"I want to see the flowers in bloom again, and the green on the hills," Rachel had said, and they'd moved in right before Christmas. In the cold months of winter, they turned the cottage into their home, hanging up pictures and rearranging furniture (several times). In the evenings, they read books to each other in front of the fire. Rachel bought Connor a piano, and he played for her nearly every day.

In the spring, they worked in the gardens every day. Or rather, Connor worked and Rachel directed, sitting in her chair in the sunshine and wrapped in a shawl against the chill. The flowers bloomed magnificently.

Sara and Colin visited in the summers, and their children played and squabbled together just as Sara and Colin used to do. They all went riding in the hills and along the beach, and Connor taught the young ones how to follow a rabbit in the grass. "Grandpa," Rachel called Connor fondly, but only when the children were out of the room, for they knew him as Cousin Mike, and Sara and Colin were both careful never to call him Dad. Whenever Daniel or Oona showed up, Connor left town.

Duncan came during the winter holidays, staying for his birthday and Christmas. He baked a cake for Connor's birthday on New Year's Day, then left soon after to go back to his job as a helicopter pilot for search-and-rescue in the North Sea. "He always has liked to help people," Rachel observed.

Four years after moving in, Connor rearranged the furniture in the guest bedroom to make room for Elsa, a nurse who specialized in end-of-life care. Another refugee from the Netherlands, she had graying hair, a fondness for music by Sting, and a passion for detective stories. She read a chapter from the current mystery to Rachel every day, and they discussed the various clues about "who dunnit" for hours.

"Who's Connor?" Elsa asked him one rainy spring afternoon as she set the kettle on for tea.

Connor fell back on stalling tactic Number One. "What?" he asked, as if he hadn't heard, looking up from the kitchen counter.

"Connor," Elsa repeated. "Rachel's mentioned him several times."

He cut another slice of bread for sandwiches while he calculated the generations. "My great-grandfather. He found her during the war, then adopted her and took her to the States."

"She's starting to wander a bit then," Elsa commented. "She speaks of him as if he were still alive."

Connor nodded as he cut another piece of bread.

"Do you look like him?" Elsa asked next.

"A bit," he admitted. "So I've been told."

"Well, don't be surprised if she calls you Connor now and again," she said, setting the tea cups on the tray. "Just respond normally and don't try to correct her."

Connor had long ago given up trying to "correct" Rachel. He wasn't about to start now.

And there was no need to; her mind remained clear. She was the first to solve the mysteries, seeing clues that Elsa missed, and she did a crossword puzzle every day. "It's good to see," Elsa said to him while they washed the supper dishes.

"Rachel's always been active," Connor said.

"Many are. But in the care centers…" She shook her head. "So many are so alone. It's not good. They don't do well. And we never have enough staff to give true care. It's worse every year. I heard of a fever that swept through and killed hundreds in just one week. The beds were full again soon." She handed him a dish to dry and reached for a pot that needed scrubbing. "Rachel's lucky to have you."

"I was lucky to have her."

"Oh, did she raise you?"

"Yes," Connor said after a moment, and it was true, in a way.

"It's wonderful to see such devotion." Elsa gave him a smile of warm approval. "Wonderful and rare."

"Rachel's a wonderful woman," Connor said. He'd been very lucky indeed, to have known her all these years.

The visits from family were quieter that summer, spaced out so that Rachel wouldn't get too tired. The end came on a glorious late summer afternoon. The windows were open, and he and Elsa had brought in bouquets of peonies and hydrangeas and roses into Rachel's room.

"I'm glad I'm going now," Rachel said. Her thin hand was cold within his own as they lay side by side on the bed. "It's too dreary to die in the autumn or the winter. So depressing for everyone at the funeral to have to step through dead leaves or snow."

Connor had to smile. Rachel always thought first of other people's needs.

"I want my ashes to go to your farm at the Highlands," she said next. "Near Alex."

"Not next to Mitzi in New York?" he asked in surprise.

"The MacLeods are my family, Connor, starting with you. I'd like to be near Alex, and then Colin and Sara when their time comes. And maybe their children someday. A family plot. " She sounded very satisfied. "And it'll give you fewer graves for you to visit."

Connor cleared his throat. "Trying to make life easy for me?"

"Always. So," she said brightly, "do I get a candle on my birthday?"

"Of course," he told her, trying to sound bright for her. Her one-hundred-and-first birthday was less than a month away.

"Oh, Connor," she said, reaching out to touch his cheek. "Don't be sad, sweetheart. I've had a lovely life, thanks to you."

"And you've brought love into mine," he told her. "In so many ways."

"Don't forget how," she ordered, and her grip tightened on his hand. "You mustn't forget how to love. Promise me, Connor."

He had to swallow hard before the words would come. "I promise."

"Just remember," Rachel said with the sweet impish grin that hadn't changed in all her hundred years, "it's a kind of a magic."

She could always make him smile. "I love you, Rachel," he told her. "Always."

"Always," she agreed. Then she laid her head on his shoulder, like she used to do when she was little, and they fell asleep, side by side in a room filled with flowers and the hum of bees outside.

Connor woke alone.

* * *

><p>Duncan arrived the next day. They held the memorial service in the garden, on a day of brilliant sunshine, with flowers all abloom. Duncan placed a pink and white peony next to the dusky rose Connor had placed next to the urn with Rachel's ashes. Elsa read a poem and left a daisy, then packed her bags and said farewell.<p>

"What now?" Duncan asked in concern the next morning, but he wasn't too worried, for Connor seemed to be handling this death well, or at least better than he had with Alex or Brenda. The ending of a long life well-lived was easier to accept than one cut short by illness or a sudden crash.

Connor stretched and looked about, from the open sky over the ocean to the south to the dark line of trees in the north. "A walk."

"Right." Duncan was almost afraid to ask, but when the silence lingered, he was forced to. "Where to?"

"The Highlands."

"Ah." He should have known. From one coast of Britain to the other. The long way.

"I thought I'd follow the Roman roads," Connor said. "See how many I can find."

"Good idea," Duncan said. When he'd heard of Rachel's death, Duncan had taken an indefinite leave of absence to be available to Connor, and so he immediately offered, "Want company?" That got a shrug and a nod, which, Duncan had learned long ago meant, "If you want to I won't say no, but I won't say yes, either." Which meant Connor wanted some time alone. Time to walk, time to grieve, time to heal, time for the last, lingering farewell. He would carry Rachel's ashes with him and arrive in the Highlands by autumn, where_ mortal foot hath ne'er or rarely been; To climb the trackless mountain all unseen…_

Duncan had no doubt that Connor would finish this pilgrimage by lighting a candle at Heather's grave in Glencoe and another in Glenaladale, where Alex had been laid to rest ten years before and where Rachel's ashes would go. Brenda, Connor's second wife, was also buried in the Highlands, and so were Connor's parents.

As were Duncan's. He hadn't visited their grave in years. It was time. "See you in Glenfinnan at the Solstice Stones in December?" Duncan suggested.

"That would be good," Connor said with an approving nod. Duncan stayed for another week to help Connor empty the house, and they parted then, with no need to say goodbye.

Duncan didn't feel like going back to work just yet, so he called his supervisor and quit his job. From Cornwall, Duncan wandered a bit and eventually found himself in Liverpool. He took the ferry to Ireland, landing in Dublin, a city with too many people and the look of better days. He headed west, stopping for the night at the village of Slane. "Come for the concert at the castle tomorrow?" asked the lady at the pub, and it was a good enough reason to stay. The music fans started arriving the next morning, a cheerful crowd of all ages, and as evening fell they gathered in the shadows of tall, grey walls of stone.

An Immortal was nearby.

Duncan scanned the crowd, trying to appear as if he were simply looking for someone he knew, instead of looking for someone who knew how to kill him.

Quite a few women and several men looked him over and smiled, but only one looked him over and stared back unblinking. Her outfit—sleek black boots and a snug black tunic of finely-knit jersey revealing an impressive length of leg and covering an impressive amount of bosom—made it obvious she wasn't carrying a sword, but her deliberate stare made it obvious she was the immortal.

Duncan maneuvered his way through the crowd, while she stood her ground and waited for him to come to her. Her raven hair hung to her shoulders, reminding him of Amanda's hairstyle in Paris nearly half a century before, but this woman's hair curled softly and her eyes were green, not brown. "I'm not here to fight," Duncan said quietly.

"Nor I," she said, waving a graceful hand at the stage. "So we can both enjoy the music."

He nodded, relieved, and decided he might as well say hello. "I'm Duncan MacLeod," he said with a smile, offering his hand.

She glanced at it and then at him, smiling in the way of a beautiful woman who is used to such overtures, smiling with knowledge and mystery and power. Just like Amanda. "Kate Cavanaugh," she answered, with a brief handshake then turned back to the musicians.

"Irish, are you?" he said, to keep the conversation going.

That got him a sidelong glance and another hint of a smile. "For now. Scottish, are you?"

"Yes." For always.

"Hmmm." That was all she said, but later in the evening, she accepted his offer of dancing and later still, as the music faded and the stars gleamed, she made an offer of her own. "Would you like to weave a kilt for yourself, Duncan MacLeod?"

"Weave a kilt," he repeated, a bit taken aback. No one had ever asked him that before.

"Every Scotsman needs a kilt, doesn't he?"

"Yes," he agreed, rising to the challenge of her teasing words. "He does."

"Though I suppose you won't need help wrapping your own plaid." Now she sounded regretful.

"It's been a while," he admitted. "I may need a hand."

Even in the dimness, he could see the flash of her smile. "Then I'll see you on Monday at the weaving center," she said, handing him a card and then wrapping her tongue and her lips around his name: "Duncan MacLeod."

It sounded like fun. And it was always good to learn something new.

* * *

><p>Two weeks later, when Duncan and the other students were almost finished with their practice projects, Kate asked if he would like to accompany her on a walk along the river. "There's an old monastery to the south. The ruins of one, anyway."<p>

"Yes, sounds great," Duncan agreed. After sitting in front of a loom all morning, he was ready to stretch his legs… and spend more time with Kate. She'd been all business so far.

As they walked, she told him old stories of the land, but folk tales, not history. He shared a few he'd heard as a lad, and they spoke of of bogarts, of the Sidhe, and of the poukah of the dark mane and darker heart.

The day was bright with welcome sunshine, but darkness still haunted the land. "That's a quickening," Kate said grimly as the crackle of lightning flared off to their right. They glanced at each other then both went off the path, pine needles soft underfoot. Under the cover of the trees, Duncan and Kate each drew a sword.

Deeper in the woods, a familiar scene greeted them: a lone figure kneeling exhausted with a sword in her hands, and a body sprawled near her in a dark red pool. A severed head lay some distance away.

The head lay near their path, and as they walked by, Kate slowed. Duncan stopped. The man's mouth was open, showing slightly crooked teeth and a red tongue, his bulbous nose was smeared with dirt, and his short brown hair was sprinkled with gray and spattered with blood. He looked surprised, which wasn't uncommon.

However, most heads of dead Immortals didn't have a bullet hole in the middle of the forehead.

Duncan tightened his grip on his sword. He and Kate looked carefully at the slender young-looking woman who was painfully hauling herself to her feet. The gun was on the ground, too far for her to reach, probably where she'd dropped it to pick up the sword, but she could have had another gun on her.

"You hunt in pairs?" she demanded as she stood, the English words touched with a Turkish accent. She shoved a strand of black hair back from her dark eyes, leaving a smear of blood on her cheek, bright red against light brown.

"You hunt with a gun?" Duncan demanded in return, wondering if he'd found the "shoot first-behead later" Immortal. There'd been that one in Fiji, twelve years ago, and the two Cassandra had sent word of. Maybe this was serial killing number four.

"No!" the woman snapped back. "He hunted me." She looked at the body at her feet then stepped back from the spreading pool of blood, which was just about to reach the shiny brown smears of vomit on the leaves. She met Duncan's gaze defiantly, lifting the tip of her sword.

"We're not hunting," Kate said calmly then added with a smile, "My name is Kate."

After a moment, the other woman answered, "Sofie." She swallowed hard as her fingers loosened slightly on the handle of her sword.

Or perhaps it was the dead Immortal's sword. It looked too big for her. Duncan lowered his blade, and Sofie put hers back down, too. Perhaps she was a new Immortal. Perhaps she hadn't even had a teacher yet. It was good to go slowly. "There are rules," Duncan began. "In the Game—"

"Game?" she broke in. "It's not a game. It's a fucking nightmare." She spat at the body on the ground. "That imbecile has been following me for three years. Every time I moved, he followed me. I lost my job. I lost my boyfriend. I haven't spoken to my mother in a year and a half. He kept saying he wanted to fight me. With swords."

Duncan nodded. "That's how it's done."

"'Done,'" she repeated bitterly. "You mean, that's 'how the game is played.' I told him I don't fight. I told him I didn't have a sword. I kept telling him, and he wouldn't leave me alone. He kept following me. And then…" She bit her lip, blinking back furious tears. "He killed my cat! He skinned it alive."

Duncan shook his head in disgust. Kate's mouth twisted in distaste.

"He sent me the video," Sofie continued, "so I could see. And hear. Then he said if I didn't meet him, he'd find my mother and do the same to her. So I met him." She looked over at the head then threw the sword to one side in revulsion. She looked up to glare at Duncan and Kate. "You can keep your fucking Game," Sofie said. "And you can keep your fucking swords. I'm not playing."

"Sofie," Duncan said, gently now, "I know being an Immortal is hard, and I know you were defending yourself today, but I'm warning you: Don't make it a habit to hunt with guns."

"So are you the sheriff?" she asked sarcastically then challenged: "Are you going to stop me?"

Duncan just looked at her.

Sofie glanced back and forth between him and Kate, then laughed, painfully, and blinked back more tears before asking, "Why didn't you stop him?"

That night, Duncan dreamed of Richie. He woke in darkness and in tears. "Why, Mac?" Richie had asked him once. "Just tell me why." Duncan didn't have an answer. Not now, not fifty years ago when Richie had first come into his life. Not when Richie had died at his hand.

The Game was the Game.

The next day, Kate told the weaving class that a different teacher would take over tomorrow. A family crisis was calling her away. After class was over and the other students had filed out of the weaving room, Duncan asked, "Found a new student?"

Kate nodded. "Sofie needs someone."

All Immortals did. Most weren't this lucky. Or, perhaps, not this devious. "You should know," he said, "there've been three other shootings in the last dozen years. Sofie may not be—"

"—as new as she seems?" Kate finished wryly. "I've seen that trick before. I'll be careful."

He asked curiously, "Does it bother you? That she shot him and then took his head?"

"If her story is true, no. If you're new and you don't have the faintest idea how to use a sword and you're being hunted, a gun is self-defense, even if the killing is pre-meditated. And we can hardly lay blame: we Immortals often kill each other for no real reason at all."

"That's the Game," Duncan said.

She nodded thoughtfully. "I've no problem with Immortals dueling if they both want to, and I won't seek revenge for that, but to hunt down young ones, especially that way…" She shook her head. "I'd have taken his head, if I'd known."

"So would I," Duncan replied. But he didn't know everything, and he couldn't be everywhere. He was also tired to the bone of being both policeman and judge. Of being the champion.

The executioner.

"You and I have a chance to win," Kate was saying, her smile thin. "Sofie doesn't—not yet. I can't blame her for what she did."

"It's not honorable," Duncan said. "On either side."

"I agree. But then, honor isn't one of the rules of the Game."

It was for him. It had to be.

"Besides," Kate pointed out, "if some of us never fight, none of us can ever win." Then she added, "Winner take all," a brittle layer of cheerfulness over the ugly reality of death.

For a person of honor must win the prize, so those with honor killed those without, while those without killed anyone at all. And so the Game went on. And that gun-toting serial killer was still out there.

"What other acts do you think deserve death?" Duncan asked. "Besides hunting the weak."

"Betrayal," Kate answered immediately. "The deliberate breaking of trust." She picked up her bag of wool and slung it over her shoulder. "Take care, Duncan MacLeod."

"I wish you and Sofie well," he said sincerely.

"Thank you. I hope to see you again someday." She was nearly at the door when she turned and said with a smile, "You can show me your kilt."

Duncan laughed and went back to choosing the colors for his plaid.

* * *

><p><strong><em>Continued in "Bless the Child", where Sara MacLeod confronts her father on the dojo floor<em>**


	6. Bless the Child

**BLESS THE CHILD**

* * *

><p><strong>Akademie der Sankte Hildegard, Austrian Alps: 30 October 2042<strong>

* * *

><p>"When did you first feel like a grown-up, Mom?" Alea asked as she and Sara were strapping on their protective gear in the stone-walled anteroom of the karate dojo at the ancient castle that had become the St. Hildegard Academy fifteen years ago, another of the Phinyx Foundation's boarding schools for girls.<p>

"At my Uncle Duncan's wedding," Sara immediately replied, while she sat on the wooden bench and carefully adjusted the shin guard over the tender spot just beneath her left kneecap. After the most recent (and probably final) adolescent growth spurt, Alea was as tall as Sara was. Sara had forgotten Alea's increased reach during Sensei Roxanne's class last week.

"But you were only ten," Alea, an ever-so-ancient fifteen-and-a-half, objected, and she pulled her long black curls into an unruly ponytail.

"Nine," Sara corrected, but on that day of autumn springtime in New Zealand, the bridge from her childhood to her adulthood had been built and crossed. Oh, she had gone back to her childhood almost immediately, and then straddled that gap for a few years, but soon enough childhood became a land of the mists for her, glimpsed most clearly in dreams and memories, best brought back in the echoes of her own children's laughter.

She'd grown up fast, once she'd found out the people she loved were immortals.

"What happened at your Uncle Duncan's wedding, Mom?" Alea asked as they finished dressing and tied their belts over their gi. "To make you feel grown-up?"

Sara waved her hand vaguely in the air, unwilling to lie, unable to tell the truth. Alea didn't know about immortals, and hopefully she never would. She would never call her grandfather "Grandpa"; he was "Cousin Mike" to her, and Alea knew Duncan only as a family friend, not as Sara's uncle.

"Oh, seeing all the families together, from the very young to the very old," Sara told Alea, and it wasn't really a lie, not all the way. "It made me realize that my parents had been young once: been babies, children, teenagers, that they'd been lovers when they were married, that they'd had a life all their own. And then it hit me: One day, they'd be gone."

"I'd wish I'd known them," Alea said quietly. "Your mom and dad."

"I wish that, too," Sara said. "You look just like your grandmother, you know," Sara said to her daughter, and it was more true with every year. The same high cheekbones, the same beauty and grace. The eyes were lighter, though, startlingly blue against dusky skin, like a husky with white-blue eyes. Sara smiled as she reached out a tender hand to smooth back an errant curl. "Except for the hair and the skin."

"Oh, I know. I get that—," and Alea tossed her head and tightened her ponytail again, "—from my dad."

"You certainly do," Sara said, remembering the first time she'd seen Daniel, his eyes alight and his black hair streaming behind him as he'd leapt and plucked a baseball from the air, and then thrown the runner out at second base. Did he and Will still play catch? Or was it all football now?

"Uncle Colin says Grandma's hair was pure gold," Alea said, and it had been, before the silver strands crept in, before the dyes had faded it to ash blonde, before Mom had finally let it go completely and gloriously white. Alea added complacently, "Then he said mine was shimmering black silk, like ocean waves under moonlight."

Sara smiled at that. "He always was a poet at heart." And a romantic, but that wasn't surprising. She'd been one, too, before Daniel had gone.

"Ready?" Alea asked, and she grinned as she picked up her bo, the long wooden staff still sheathed in black cloth.

"I don't know," Sara said warily, even as she smiled and reached for her own weapon. "You seem a little too eager to me."

"I learned some new moves this weekend."

"Uh-oh," Sara said, as she and Alea walked to the arched doorway and bowed before entering the dojo, the old castle's banquet hall now put to different use. Dust-filled beams of sunlight crossed from the row of lancet windows high overhead to the swords and sai hanging on the long, side wall. Their bright metal gleamed against the white stone blocks. Sara and Alea bowed before the portraits of the founders on the front wall, then took the covers off their bo and laid the cloth strips on the bench near the door. In the center of the room they faced each other and bowed once more.

"Sister Laina and I have been taking special lessons with Sensei Mike," Alea explained, assuming the ready position, her bo held confidently in her young hands.

Sara stifled a groan. Sensei Mike (listed as Michael Connor Audren on his most recent "birth" certificate and known as Connor MacLeod to a select few, just as Cassandra had adopted the name Laina Garrison) had offered to teach Sara those new moves when he'd first arrived in Austria ten months ago. Sara hadn't had time, busy as she was with the Phinyx Finance Council, finding and buying a Chapter House for the South America school, the opening of ten new shelters in the U.S. for the dispossessed and starving thousands there, preparing for her initiation ceremony into the Inner Circle. She hadn't made time, either. She didn't need another sensei.

Connor had obviously made the time to find other students, two students who just happened to be Sara's daughter and Sara's long-time friend. What a coincidence. And what was he up to?

"We should stretch first, to warm up," Sara reminded her too-eager teenager, which was of course true, but Sara also wanted to postpone the punishment Alea was about to deal out. What Connor wanted to deal out (and Sara thought of him as Connor now, not Dad, not for years), well, Sara would take care of that—and of him—in her own way, and in her own time.

"Oh, right," Alea agreed, and as they started the arm circles she said, "I'm glad you could come today, Mom. I know things have been busy since the last food riots, and all the travel you have to do, and with—"

"I'm glad you asked," Sara cut in, but she should have said, "I'm glad you kept asking," because Alea had been asking for a sparring session with "just the two of us" for weeks. "Let's do this every Thursday," Sara suggested, in a sudden desperate urge to keep at least one of her children close.

"Sure!" Alea said, with a happy smile.

Yes, she should have done this weeks ago. "Sunday dinner together, too?" Sara suggested.

Alea stopped with her arms straight over her head. "Like before?"

"Like before," Sara agreed, but with only two of them now, not four. "Alea...," she began, then forced herself to go on. "I'm sorry. Since your dad left, and when Will decided to go, too ... I haven't been much of a mother to you—"

"You're a great mom," Alea interrupted fiercely. "I don't care what Dad said."

Sara blinked back sudden tears, and then Alea was right there, hugging her instead of asking to be hugged. They stood there for a long, quiet moment, heads on each other's shoulders, arms holding tight. "I'm sorry," Sara finally said again.

"For what?" Alea said. "Having a job? Just because you traveled sometimes didn't mean he could—"

"Alea."

"He was a jerk."

Sara couldn't argue with that. But it wasn't so simple. "He was lonely."

"He had me and Will. And you weren't gone that much."

She'd been gone enough. Enough so that both her husband and her son had chosen another woman over her. "What did you expect?" Daniel had said when seven-year-old Will announced he wanted to go with his dad and Miss Juliette from the school. "They see each other every day."

"And you see her every night," Sara had snapped back.

He'd simply looked at her across the dining table. "What did you expect?"

She'd expected her husband to be faithful. She'd expected him to wait for her, the way her father had waited for her mother. She'd expected her marriage to last.

But it hadn't. She'd ignored or missed all the mundane warning signs, and those psychic dreams she'd been so pleased with — so proud of – had stopped nine years ago, when she'd been pregnant with Will, and they'd never come back. She couldn't even remember the last time she'd tried to listen to the heartbeat of a tree.

So now she was a normal, middle-aged divorced woman with graying hair, like thousands of others around the world. But she had a good job, Sara reminded herself. And great friends and a place to live and enough to eat, and a teen-aged daughter who thought she was a great mom. She was lucky. "Your father and I both made mistakes," Sara said, trying very hard to be fair, and to follow her own mother's example in letting go of the man she loved.

"His mistake was a lot worse than yours," Alea muttered.

Sara couldn't argue with that, either. But she didn't want to talk about it now. "Sweetheart, can we just—"

"I'm sorry, Mom," Alea said quickly. "Let's finish stretching." When they were done, Alea suggested, "A _kata_?_ Bo sho-dan_?"

Sara nodded and moved to stand by Alea's side. "_Yoi_," Alea intoned, and they slid into the sequence of moves—step and slide, turn and strike, bare feet squeaking occasionally on the scuffed wooden floor, each bo tracing a deadly figure-eight in the air as it shifted from hand to hand, and then striking out again, at the head, at the groin, at the knee. Then step and slide again, turn the other way, with the bo twirling in the air, and on to the next set of moves.

Sara and Alea ended up side by side, precisely where they had started, the bo held vertically in their right hands. "Good one," Alea said after they had grounded their staffs. "At least I didn't get turned around that time."

"The_ bo kata_ are hard to keep straight for me, too," Sara said, and she tightened the knot on her belt.

"Sensei Mike seems to know all the _kata_," Alea commented, fixing her ponytail yet again. "In lots of different styles, too. Of course, he practices all the time."

"Yes, he does," Sara agreed, keeping her tone casual, because Alea didn't know about the endless fighting among immortals, about the beheadings and the quickenings and the Game, not yet, hopefully never. "I'm going to stretch some more, Alea," Sara told her daughter, and Sara set down her bo and began to stretch, first one side, then the other.

Alea started stretching, too, but she didn't stop talking, which wasn't a surprise. "Of course, when Sensei Mike and Sister Laina finally get together, I bet he won't spend his free time in the dojo." A grin spread across her face. "He'll be in bed with her."

Sara straightened immediately. "Alea!"

"What?" she protested, one arm curved over her head as she bent to the right. "You can't miss the way they look at each other. I think they'd be a sweet couple, and so does everybody else in my class." She straightened and bent the other way. "Well, except for Lise, but that's only because she was hoping Sensei Mike would like her. Most of us did—I know I did," she added, completely unaware that she was speaking of her own grandfather.

"Alea!" Sara said again.

"What?" Alea protested again. "I've liked Cousin Mike for years, ever since that summer when I was eight and we met him at Great Aunt Rachel's house in New York. He was so nice to her, and he would always buy me and Will doughnuts after he took us to the park, or cotton candy at the zoo. And in our trips to England he taught us how to fish and follow rabbit tracks in the grass. And he was great to pillow-fight with."

"Yes, he was," Sara said, remembering both Alea's childhood and her own.

"I miss Great Aunt Rachel," Alea added suddenly.

"So do I," Sara agreed, this time remembering late-night talks and card games and spicy stories of days long ago. "But she was a hundred years old, Alea. She had a good life."

"Yeah, that is old," Alea said and continued in blithe self-absorption, "Anyway, when Cousin Mike moved here in January, he said when we weren't in the dojo I was old enough now to call him just plain Mike, only I don't because it feels weird—but when I asked him to go dancing, he said he was way too old for me."

"He is," Sara broke in immediately, wishing she'd been there to have seen Connor's face and wanting to smack him for not telling her right away.

Alea shrugged. "It was just dancing. But Lise is nineteen, and she's been all over him for weeks, even though Cousin Mike never says more than 'Hi' to her. But he's got more than 'Hi' for Sister Laina, and she's got a lot more than that for him. We're taking bets on how long it will be until they finally go to bed."

They already had, in 1592, four hundred and fifty years ago. Sara didn't say anything as she watched Alea bend to touch her toes, going all the way down until her palms were flat on the floor. Her hair flipped forward and lay in a pool of black silk ribbons over her hands. Sara's own hair was just barely to her shoulders now, the brown laced through with white and gray, not dyed, never once dyed. Sara gave a quick puff of air upward to get her bangs away from her eyes. She needed a haircut again; perhaps on Tuesday she would have time to walk into town.

"I'm betting on three weeks," Alea announced, as she stood and tossed her ponytail over her shoulder. "Sister Laina hasn't had a lover in ages, has she? Sister Haneul said she never saw Sister Laina with anyone serious during their four years in London, and we know she hasn't been with anyone since she was transferred here last year."

"No," Sara agreed, deciding that three decades qualified as "ages." Sara had been a teenager when Cassandra had taken up with Maureen. That hadn't lasted very long, and there'd been no one since then. And no one for centuries before Maureen, either, except one night with Duncan. Definitely ages.

"So, why not?" Alea asked, and why not, indeed. "She seems happier when he's around."

And Cassandra was happy; Sara knew that. Everybody knew that. Cassandra had always been vivacious and energetic, busy and focused on the work—she shone with steady purpose. Now she glowed, and her quiet smiles had become laughter. Connor made her happy, and she made him happy, too, happier than he'd been since Mom had died, over fifteen years ago. It wasn't as obvious with him, but Sara could tell. Two weeks was a more likely bet. Or perhaps one. They'd waited centuries.

Sara didn't begrudge them that. She loved them both, and she knew they suited each other in ways no one else could. Mom had known that, too. "It's going to happen, Sara," Mom had told her on the day after Connor's 500th birthday, after the party that Cassandra had not been invited to. "They're both immortal," Mom had gone on, her eyes bright blue in contrast to the pure white of her hair, "and they know each other so well ... they love each other. Someday, you and I—and Rachel and Colin and John— won't be here, and your dad doesn't do well when he's alone. Cassandra will take care of him when we can't."

"But, Mom," Sara had begun in confusion, "doesn't that bother you? I mean, you haven't even spoken to Cassandra in years."

"I know," Mom had admitted, looking away. "I was blaming her, for my getting old. But it's not her fault I'm mortal, and she's immortal, and it's not your dad's fault, either. It's just ... what they are. What we are."

Sara knew that, better now at forty-five than she had at twenty-two, or at Uncle Duncan's wedding at the age of nine, but it still wasn't fair, not to any of them.

Mom had gone on, "I wrote to Cassandra last night—my New Year's resolution—to tell her I didn't hate her, not anymore. I like to think that Heather and Brenda wouldn't hate me for loving Connor, now that they're gone. They would want Connor to be happy." Mom had taken a deep breath and said firmly, "And so do I. Love shouldn't be selfish, Sara. Sometimes it has to let go."

Sara knew that. She believed it. She'd learned it with Daniel last year—not that he'd given her much choice—and recently both her children had been teaching her to let go again. But love didn't have to disappear, and it should never just walk away.

Sara picked up her bo and turned to her daughter. "I'm ready. Are you?"

It took her about ninety seconds to realize she wasn't ready after all. "Damn it," Sara swore, as Alea got inside her guard yet again and caught her on the elbow. Sara shook her arm, trying to get her fingers to stop tingling. "Do that again, only not so hard and not so fast."

Alea showed her the maneuver, slowly, and then Sara tried it out on her, over and over, faster each time. "Good!" Alea said finally. "Now here's a counter for it."

Sara had just finished figuring out the countermove when a familiar rasping voice sounded from the doorway: "Ready to try that with me?"

"Sensei Mike!" Alea exclaimed in delight, and Sara let out an irritated sigh before she turned. Connor was bowing at the doorway, his black belt stark against the immaculate whiteness of his gi, his wrapped bo in his hand. His golden-brown beard was clipped short in the current fashion, and his shoulder-length hair, a little darker, was bound in a neat braid at the nape of his neck. Cassandra liked long hair.

He bowed to the portraits, then walked over to them. Alea and Sara bowed first, the courtesy required from lower belts to higher belts, and Connor definitely outranked them both, if only in the dojo. Connor bowed in return, just as politely, then waited for Sara to respond to his suggestion. Alea was waiting, too. "Sure," Sara said, blowing her bangs up out of her eyes, because she wasn't about to back down, not from him, not in front of Alea. "That way Sensei Mike can see how good a teacher you are, Alea."

"And how good a student you are!" Alea put in. "It's not all up to me."

Sara didn't answer that. Connor knew exactly what kind of student she was. He was already sliding his bo out of its black canvas sheath, and when he faced Sara in the center of the floor, his narrowed gray eyes held even more eagerness than Alea's had earlier today. "Not going to stretch?" Sara asked, not averse to a delay.

"Already did," he answered. "In the anteroom."

Of course he had. He'd probably told Alea to let him know when Sara was going to be in the dojo. He might even have been listening to them the entire time. In fact, he'd probably put Alea up to asking Sara to spar with her, week after week after week. Sara bowed to him, he bowed to her; then she smiled at him and attacked.

Which had been, Sara reflected a few minutes later as she sank to the floor in pain, hugging her throbbing arm to her side, extremely stupid of her. Not that she needed hindsight to figure that out, or any magical kind of foresight, either. She knew Connor went to the dojo every day. She knew Connor had over five hundred years of experience in fighting for his life. She knew she couldn't hurt him, not permanently, and she'd known when she'd escalated the sparring match by smacking him a good one that she'd been begging for trouble, because Connor never backed down from that kind of challenge, especially not from a student. No karate teacher would. He'd blinked once in pain and surprise at her strike, then his eyes had lit up and he had half-smiled, that dangerous smile she'd seen only rarely but could never forget.

"Think you're ready, eh?" he'd said, and then proceeded to demonstrate to her exactly how unready and outclassed she really was. And of course, Connor knew exactly what her weak spots were. He'd had enough time to learn.

"You could use more practice," Connor observed from a few feet away, his bo still in his hands. "Some more lessons."

But not from him. He was still her father, but she wasn't a child anymore, and she was not going to be his student.

"You two were really going fast!" Alea exclaimed, getting up from where she'd been kneeling on the floor. "I didn't even see that last move."

Neither had Sara. She got to her feet and picked up her bo from the floor with her left hand, afraid that her right hand might not close all the way. She bowed to Connor, as was required, holding the position for a maddening two seconds before he bowed back.

"You had all the right moves, Mom," Alea reassured her. "Didn't she, Sensei Mike?"

"Yes, she did," he acknowledged, sounding pleased, almost proud, but Sara wasn't going to be bought off with that. She made her way stiffly over to the bench and picked up the cover for her bo.

"Are you hurt?" Alea asked, now sounding concerned.

"I'll be fine," Sara said, and she knew she would be, in a little while. Connor hadn't hit her hard enough to cause permanent damage. He'd known exactly what he was doing. She debated trying to slide her bo into its narrow cloth sheath and decided against it. She needed both hands for that. "Just some bruises."

"Oh, well, everybody gets those in training," Alea said in dismissal. "They only last a week or two, long enough for the lessons to sink in, that's what Sensei Roxanne always says."

Sara swung around to look Connor in the eye. "Then you'd better learn fast, hadn't you, Sensei 'Mike'?" she asked him, and with the sheath draped over her shoulder and her bo in her left hand, Sara bowed her way from the room.

She knew his weak spots, too.

* * *

><p>Cassandra, dressed in neatly pressed white gi and black belt, was waiting in the changing room when Sara emerged from the showers. "You spying on me, too?" Sara asked, toweling herself dry. Her right hand worked now, but a few other spots would be sore for days to come. Connor's bruises had no doubt healed before Sara had left the dojo.<p>

"No," Cassandra answered with studied patience. "Alea and I had a lesson with Connor at two. I didn't realize you were joining us today."

"Neither did I," Sara answered sourly.

"Neither did Connor."

"Oh, please," Sara said in disgust as she dropped the towel on the bench. "He put Alea up to it weeks ago."

"Your father," Cassandra stated evenly, "is not that devious."

"No?"

"No. Not with the people he loves."

"Because of what you did to him, no doubt." Sara pulled her tunic over her head and took her time about poking her head through the neck-hole.

Cassandra was still waiting for her, still patient, still calm. "No doubt."

Sara finished dressing without a word—underwear (she'd forgotten her bra in her haste to put something on, but what the hell), leggings, belt and dagger (ornamental, but still wickedly sharp), boots, cloak—then ran her fingers through her still-damp hair, grabbed her bag, and headed out the door. Cassandra pulled on her own cloak and followed her down the stairs to the inner courtyard. From the open lancet windows above them came the distant clack of wood striking wood, Connor teaching Alea some more new moves, no doubt.

"He loves you, Caorran," Cassandra said, calling Sara by her sisterhood name, as she had since Sara had started working for Phinyx twenty-some years ago. They walked past the picturesque and fully functional stone-encircled well. Three junior students ran by, late for class probably, their dark blue cloaks and scarves of canary yellow and midnight black flapping behind them in the brisk autumn air. They dodged the gray-clad Guardian as she strode directly to the gatehouse. Guardians never merely walked.

"He's driving me crazy," Sara responded, not slowing down at all.

Cassandra smiled. "Your mother used to say that a lot."

Sara stopped dead, and Cassandra stopped too, her auburn braid of hair swinging slowly, its tip just grazing the back of her knees. Connor liked long hair.

"My mother," Sara stated, "was his wife. I am his daughter, and he never lets me forget that." She started walking again, aiming for the narrow staircase in the round tower. "I know I'm less than a tenth of his age, but I am not a child."

"What do you want from him, Caorran?" Cassandra asked, walking with her again. "He came here because you told him you wanted to see him, yet you never seem to have time for him. You haven't spoken to him in days."

"He's here because of you," Sara said dismissively, yanking open the heavy wooden door and striding through.

Again, Cassandra followed. "He's here because of you," Cassandra said. "You and Alea. Just as he went to the Highlands when Colin was alone. Just as he went traveling with Duncan after Susan died. Just as he moved in with Rachel. His family is everything to him. If you and Alea left here, he'd follow."

Sara paused with her hand on the stair railing, carved by long-ago masons directly into the stone. "How's it feel to be last?"

Cassandra's lips thinned, then curved into a wry smile. "Familiar." Sara turned to go, but Cassandra wasn't finished. "The next time you decide to fight with him, Caorran, don't try it in the dojo."

"Yeah," Sara agreed ruefully, shaking out her arm again and feeling the tingle. "Too much pain."

"For both of you."

Sara snorted in disbelief. "I can't hurt him."

"Oh, yes, you can. And you have."

Sara didn't believe that either. She didn't want to. She shrugged and turned to walk up the stairs, but Cassandra called out, "Sara!" a snap of command from the whip of the Voice, and at the sound of her birth name, Sara froze. Literally. One foot was in the air and one hand was clutching the railing, and she could not move.

From behind her, Cassandra's voice was pleasant, even friendly. "The next time that you decide to unleash your anger with Connor and with Daniel—and with yourself—take it for a walk or take it running, Caorran, but don't take it out on me. I won't be so patient again."

Cassandra left her then, and it was nearly ten seconds before Sara shuddered herself free. Her fingernails were white with the effort of holding the railing, and her legs trembled with fatigue. The rest of her was trembling with rage ... and, she had to admit, fear.

"Wonderful, Sara," she muttered to herself as she started the climb to her room. "Just fracking wonderful."

* * *

><p>"What the hell is her problem?" Connor demanded as soon as Cassandra had shut the door to his office. He'd been pacing between desk and window and liquor cabinet for the last ten minutes, waiting for her to arrive.<p>

Cassandra seated herself in one of the chairs at the small conference table and arranged her dark blue skirt about her before answering. "Her husband left her."

"And I came straight away." He had arrived at the school two weeks after Daniel had moved out, introducing himself as Michael Audren, newly hired instructor in martial arts. After a week or two, everyone called him Sensei Mike. Except for Sara. She wouldn't call him Mike, she never called him Connor, and she hadn't called him Dad in ten years. She hardly spoke to him at all.

"Her son left her," Cassandra said next.

"I know," Connor said shortly. Breaking up a marriage was bad enough, and cheating on your wife was inexcusable, but to take away a child, especially to move so far away… Connor had thought Daniel a better man. He tossed back most of the whisky in his glass before saying, "Alea's still here."

Cassandra gave her small "hmm" of noncommittal assent. Then she met his eyes. "Her father left her."

Connor stopped pacing and slammed the glass down. "I'm right here!"

"Sensei Mike is here," Cassandra contradicted. "Her father left her eight years ago, when Connor MacLeod died on a ship in the Timor Sea."

Duncan had been the one to suggest that "pirate attack," and it had been an excellent idea. They'd both needed to disappear, and escaping the paper and computer trails grew harder every year. A burial at sea left no trace. "Sara knows why," Connor said.

"Yes," Cassandra agreed.

"She understood it was necessary."

"Yes."

"Then what the hell is her problem?" Connor said again, frustrated beyond measure. Cassandra was looking at the grain of wood in the table and avoiding his gaze. Which, he knew damn well, meant she had something to say. "What do you know?" he demanded.

"I could guess," Cassandra admitted. "But I might be wrong. And she needs to find out for herself—and admit it to herself—before she can tell you."

Connor snorted. "She won't like that."

"Which is why she's getting professional help."

"She signed up for therapy?" he asked in surprise.

"No. Her contract specifies counseling after a certain number of complaints by students, coworkers, or supervisors. Her first appointment is at four this afternoon."

And Sara's coworkers included Cassandra and himself. "Sara won't like that," Connor said.

Cassandra shrugged. "As she has often said to me: Like is not the same as need."

That was certainly true. Connor turned to look out the window at the bleak mountains, bare rock bleached by the sun. Below, the river sparkled in the sunshine, flowing in a gentle curve around the great rock that the castle stood upon. Cassandra joined him, near but not close, and said softly. "She loves you, Connor. Never doubt that. Just give her time."

Time was the one gift he could always bestow.

It took six weeks. On a Friday afternoon, two days before the winter solstice, Connor found a message waiting in his office, voice only, no vid. "Shall we go see the winter sunrise?" said his daughter's voice, and Connor immediately sent "yes."

It was still dark when they met at the gate, too dark to see each other's eyes. As soon as they stepped from the shelter of the walls, the bitter wind clawed its way beneath their clothes. Sara went first, and Connor followed her lead, though he'd followed the route the day before. They walked silently, down the steep path from the castle gate to the valley, across the main street of the village, and through a winter-dead field.

Then they started to climb. Ignoring the meandering road, they went up the side of the hill, scrambling on all fours and holding onto tree roots in places, switchbacking when necessary, and scattering pebbles that rolled treacherously under their feet and skittered their way down.

Finally they reached the top, where great crumpled folds of rock lay in parallel lines, like claw marks from an enormous beast of old. They picked a spot out of the wind, facing southeast, with rock at their back and a magnificent view of the castle and the river far below. Across the valley, the jagged peaks of real mountains (three times the height of the hill they'd just climbed) marched southward. Connor and Sara stood silently, waiting for the sun.

It came, as it always came, after a long, slow lightening of the sky that opened the world to you in a soft twilight of shadow and mauve, so that the bright glare of the sun between two black peaks came with the sharpness of a pinprick, a lance of light into your brain. And you welcomed it, as you welcomed the coming of winter, year after year after year, because it meant you were still alive.

Sara reached for his hand, as she'd done the first time he'd taken her to see the winter sunrise at the solstice stones above Loch Shiel, a few days before she turned fourteen. For a brief moment in the soft predawn light, she'd looked that young again, with the faint lines about her eyes smudged smooth and the gray and brown in her hair all gone to a single shade.

But the dawn had broken, and the bright light was etching its shadows, showing all valleys and all the mountains, and all the colors and all the lines.

"Good morning, Princess," he said, as he'd said that day thirty-two years ago, and her eyes filled with tears. He pulled her to him, unresisting, and they sank down upon the frost-seared grass, with Sara sitting on his lap and her head on his shoulder, like she'd done when she was little, and he held her while she cried.

"Sara," Connor said softly after a time, rocking back and forth. "Shhh, Sara. Shhh."

"I'm sorry, Daddy," she said when her tears had shifted to sniffles, her voice muffled against his arm, and Connor's eyes stung with unshed tears.

"It's ok," he said, knowing it would be soon. And sure enough, after a bit Sara sat up and rubbed her face with her palms then shifted her weight off his legs, but stayed close to him, shoulders touching and hands intertwined.

He waited, but she said nothing, so finally he asked, "What went wrong?"

She blew out a gust of air and shook her head, but she answered. "Daniel thought I was having an affair. So, he decided that justified him having one, too."

Connor nodded, but that answer just created more questions. Sara wasn't talking, so it fell to him to be the chatty one. "Where you?"

"What?"

"Having an affair?

"Of course not! I would never…" She shook her head in irritation. "Besides, I didn't have time."

"Ah." There was another answer.

"What?"

"You were pretty busy, Sara. And you traveled a lot." He'd mentioned that to her a few years ago, but she'd assured him all was fine, and that she and Daniel liked having "get re-acquainted honeymoons." So Connor had backed off, following the policy Alex and he had agreed upon, of trusting their children to handle their own lives.

"I wasn't gone as much as Mom was," Sara said defensively. "And she was busy too. You never had an affair." Her eyes narrowed. "Did you?"

He echoed her earlier answer: "Of course not." He'd waited centuries to have a family; he would never jeopardize that. "Your mother and I had problems sometimes, but not that." Even if he had thought for a gut-wrenching twelve hours that Alex had been meeting a lover in a hotel, only to find out she'd been seeing a therapist there instead. But there had been other things wrong between them; he hadn't jumped to that conclusion without reason. And Daniel probably hadn't, either. "Why did Daniel think you were having an affair, Sara?"

"Because I was lying to him." She shrugged. "He knew I was hiding something. He just guessed wrong about what."

Connor didn't feel like guessing. "What were you hiding?"

She looked up at him sidelong with a brief, wry smile, then said simply, "You."

Connor blinked once, thinking that over, then let out a slow hiss of air as he finally understood. "Shit."

Sara almost laughed, even as she wiped away another tear. "Funny, huh? My husband thought I was having an affair with my dad."

Not funny at all. "Didn't he ask?"

"Oh yeah, he asked. Lots of questions. 'Who is this fellow Mike that the kids keep talking about? I didn't know Rachel had a great-nephew; who are his parents? How old is he? How come he's always gone when I visit?' And other questions, too." Sara let out another gusty sigh. "And every time he asked about Mike—about you—I lied. After a while, he stopped asking."

Sara had never had a talent for lying. "God, Sara, I'm sorry," Connor said. "If I'd realized, I would have told him. The secret's not worth your marriage. John's wife knows, and that's worked out all right." So far.

"I didn't realize it," Sara said. "Not at first. When I figured it out, I did think about telling him or asking you to tell him, but by then, he'd already made up his mind to go. So there was no point." She scrambled to her feet, clapped her hands together a few times, then wrapped her arms around herself. The sun was up, but it was still cold. "At least you won't have to worry about it with Colin," Sara said, sounding deliberately—and falsely—upbeat. "Oona won't wonder about those fishing trips you two take every year."

Unless she saw the movie _Brokeback Mountain_. Damn. He'd call Colin later today and warn him. Connor got to his feet, shaking his head in irritation. He should have foreseen this. "Sara, I…"

"The divorce wasn't your fault," she said swiftly, turning to look at him. "Daniel and I had other problems." She wrinkled her nose in distaste. "He told me all about them."

Connor couldn't fix things, but maybe he could help. "After someone makes a decision, they come up with their reasons—some of them true, some of them not."

"Yeah, that's what the counselor, Melisande, said, too." Sara's gaze went back to the mountains, still faintly tinged with the pink of dawn. "But a lot of Daniel's reasons were true. So maybe it just happened sooner than it would have anyway." Sara shook her head, shrugged, and looked at him again with a determined smile. "So, that's that." She reached out to him, and he took her hands in his. "I'm glad you're here, Dad. Truly. I've missed you."

"I've missed you, too, Princess," he told her, and it would have been a great cue for a hug and a grand finale, but Sara was biting her lip, which was not a good sign. It looked like they weren't done yet. "What?" Connor asked.

"It's not your fault," she began, which meant she'd been blaming him for it anyway. "I don't… Melisande said I should tell you, but it's really…"

He nodded encouragingly and gave Sara's hands a gentle squeeze, and finally, she began: "You remember when I called you and told you Daniel was leaving, and you said you'd come here if I wanted, and I said yes?"

"Yes."

"I wasn't expecting you to get a job here."

"Neither was I. Cassandra said the school needed a new martial arts instructor."

"We did, but…" Sara took a deep breath and plunged in. "Right after Daniel found out that you—that is, Cousin Mike, my 'lover'—was moving here, he asked Will and Alea to go with him."

Connor swore, low and vehemently, as much at himself as at Daniel, but it made sense now. Connor had been pleased that his grandchildren liked him so much, but Daniel believed that 'Mike' had stolen Daniel's wife, and Daniel wasn't about to let Mike steal the kids, too. Shit.

"So that's the other reason you were angry at me," Connor said.

"Yeah," Sara admitted, kicking at a small pebble on the ground. "It was stupid, I know. You didn't do anything wrong. I just…"

"You'd already lost your husband because of me," Connor summed up for her. "And then you lost your son." Sara's eyes brimmed over with tears and her face crumpled even as she nodded, and Connor pulled her to him right away, and once again he held her as she cried. "I'm so sorry, Sara," he said, when she seemed to be done.

"I'm sorry, too." She pulled back so she could look at him and managed a shaky smile. "I love you, Dad," she said then added her childhood pledge: "For-ever, and for always."

"I love you, too, Princess." That didn't fix things, but it sure as hell helped a lot. "For-ever, and for always."

They walked back together, hand in hand.

* * *

><p>When they reached the lower courtyard of the school, Cassandra waved to them from the top of the crenellated tower, her long hair lifted by the chill breeze. Behind her on the roof lines, the long arms of windmills turned. Sara kissed her father on the cheek then watched him take the stone stairs built into the wall two at a time, climbing up to where Cassandra waited. She smiled at something he said, waved at Sara again, and then he held a door open for Cassandra as they entered into the ancient castle of stone.<p>

Sara went to find Alea, who was finishing breakfast in the brick-arched refectory on the ground floor. Sara stood at the doorway for a moment, just looking. Alea was reading, as usual, and an apparently forgotten cup was being held motionless in the air. Following the current fashion among some of the girls, she was wearing her red and gold scarf draped over the top of her head and covering her ears, so that it looked like a mantilla, or the wimple of a nun. Her long hair was braided in single queue down her back, and she was playing with the tip of the braid with her right hand. Alea had liked to do that ever since she was two.

Sara smiled, remembering, then went over to the table. "Hi, Mom!" her daughter said cheerfully and shoved her dishes out of the way. "I'm almost packed for our trip to Bruges this afternoon; how about you?"

"All packed," Sara said, sitting down at the long wooden table. "It'll be good to see Will for Christmas." She had to admit, Daniel had been good about visitation. "Who has the betting sheet on Sister Laina and Sensei Mike?"

"Uh—," Alea stuttered in surprise then weakly asked, "Why?"

"Because I'm going to pick a date for them to go to bed together," Sara said, sipping from her tea.

Alea opened her mouth and shut it, then said, "I'll go get it. Don't watch, OK? The other girls would be nervous." Sara obediently scanned the morning news in her phone until Alea returned. "It's five euros a square," she said as reached for a napkin, slipped a paper in it, then handed the napkin to Sara.

Sara put the napkin in her lap before unfolding the much-creased paper in her lap then glancing down. Alea's initials were in the square for January fifteenth. All of the squares in December were already taken, and half of January and a few in February were gone, too.

"We started picking dates in October, and the purse is nearly four hundred now," Alea said. "Christmas, New Year's Eve, New Year's Day and Twelfth Night went early. People like holidays."

Sara nodded, but she hadn't been interested in any of those dates, even if her father's birthday was New Year's Day. Oh, Dad and Cassandra might get together then, or earlier, and maybe even get started, but Sara was sure that something would happen between them to cause a delay. A few days at least; they were both stubborn, and neither of them liked to admit they were wrong.

Like father, like daughter, Sara thought wryly, taking a pen from the pocket of her coat. Sara picked a square. and wrote the initials SHMc, once again using her full birth name: Sara Heather MacLeod.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Continued in "Two of Hearts", with a visit by Amanda<strong>_


	7. Two of Hearts

**TWO OF HEARTS**

* * *

><p><strong>Akademie der Sankte Hildegard, Sunday 21 December 2042<strong>

* * *

><p>"And how's Duncan doing on the morning of his four-hundred-fiftieth birthday?" Cassandra asked, looking up from the music chorale displayed on her reader's screen after Connor turned off his phone.<p>

"Planning to celebrate in style, after he sleeps the day away." Connor said, coming back from the narrow arched window to sit in his desk chair. "He's been working that rescue mission in the channel for the last two days, but they finally got everyone off the freighter. Tonight he's going to Paris to meet Methos and see Rossini's _La Dame du Lac_. Duncan said they'll be wearing the vests you wove for them."

"I hope he sends a picture," Cassandra said. Connor's present was nearly done, and his birthday (the five hundred twenty-fifth) was still eleven days away. Plenty of time to finish.

"Oh, and Colin said the package you sent arrived yesterday," Connor said. "He put the presents are under the tree."

"Good," she said. "How did your talk with him go?"

Connor's eyebrows twitched upward and he shook his head slightly—the silent snort of resignation. "Easier than the talk with Sara this morning."

Cassandra was not surprised. Colin wasn't dealing with a divorce brought about in part because of Connor's immortality. "Is Colin going to tell his wife about you?"

"I hope not," came the fervent reply. "But I told Colin he could, if he thought it was absolutely necessary. He didn't think it would be."

Cassandra wasn't surprised by that, either. Oona had no reason to suspect her husband of having an affair with his distant cousin Mike.

"Did you know Sara and Daniel were having problems?" Connor asked.

"No, she always said they were fine, and I haven't seen much of them these last six years. When I moved here last year, Daniel had already decided to go."

Connor nodded, but he was tapping one finger slowly on the desk. "Did any of your son's wives think you were competition?" he asked finally, then clarified: "As a lover, not as a mother-in-law."

Cassandra shook her head. "Neither. I didn't stay."

He turned to her with surprise. "Never?"

"Once, with a daughter. She was in her thirties when she died, and unmarried. We traveled as sisters. With the others… Some died young." Too many. "Usually by the time they were grown," she continued, "I had to move; we'd been in one place too long. So I would go to another village and leave them behind. Traveling was difficult, and messages were infrequent: no phone and no mail, not snail, e, v, or q. Not that people could read anyway. After a time, I would send word that I had died. Just as you and Duncan have done."

"Only with the in-laws. My children know the truth."

Which meant they had to lie. Lies ate at the heart of a marriage, shredding that all-important bond of trust. "It is difficult for everyone," Cassandra began. "immortals—"

"—can't have families," Connor broke in harshly. "Right?"

She had been the one to tell him that, more than four hundred years ago. She had been the one to teach him—brutally—that immortals could trust no one, and she had been the one to tell him they must always be alone.

"I was wrong," she said evenly. "I was angry and frightened ... and envious. Having families had not worked well for me." She took a slow and even breath, refusing to remember. "But I was wrong," she repeated, looking straight into his eyes. "immortals can have families, Connor. We can love, and we can trust." At her words, he nodded, the harshness in him fading, and the breath she took was of gladness and relief. That, at least, they had dealt with and moved beyond. But this other…

"We can have families," she began again, "but it is not easy."

"Yeah," he muttered. "I know."

He didn't know. He was only beginning to realize. Connor had said farewell to his parents, as most people did, and he had buried three wives. Eighteen months ago, he had buried a daughter, and she had lived a very long time. In the next fifty years—maybe sooner—he would bury three more children. His grandchildren would know him only as a friend from their childhood, not as a grandfather, and then his family would be gone.

Cassandra didn't bother to suggest that he should walk away before that happened, as she had done time and time again. Connor, she knew, was going to stay with his family until the end.

In the late afternoon, Cassandra met Connor as he left the dojo's changing room. His hair was still damp, and tiny tendrils had escaped from the braid. It looked as if he'd dried his beard with a towel and hadn't bothered to comb it afterwards. Cassandra's fingers twitched with the urge to smooth out the rough spots near his jaw. He nodded to her and they fell in step walking down the hall. "Good class?" she asked.

"Not today; their minds are on the holidays. But they're learning. Three of them will test for black belt in January, and I'm recommending Viu for the Guard."

"Good, Evann's been saying we need more people there." The food riots in Berlin and Moscow last winter had been brutal, and the harvests had not been good this summer, either. Adding to the instability and violence were the mass migrations away from low-lying coastlands with the resulting tensions from inevitable culture clashes and squabbles over resources. The stress of an aging population coupled with despair over the sterility plague only added to problems. Keeping their schools secure was a difficult job. Here at this school, students and teachers with their families were encouraged to live inside the castle, for convenience and the sense of community, but not all their schools had such thick stone walls.

"Not your job now; right, Cassandra?" Connor reminded her.

"I did say that," she agreed. "I needed a break." She'd spent thirty years creating and then managing Phinyx; it was good to be simply a teacher again, to have little responsibilities beyond planning classes and grading papers and coordinating the spring chorale. And Phinyx was doing fine without her; the people in charge now were bright, energetic, and committed to creating a better world. "It was past time for me to step back and let others take charge, and to get out of the public eye. But I still read the news."

"Maybe you should stop," he suggested.

"Maybe I will." After all, there were other, much more pleasant, ways to spend her time. Now, finally, the timing might just be right. Cassandra glanced out the lancet windows at the sky and commented, "The sun will set soon."

He checked his watch. "Twenty-four minutes."

"The library faces west, and it has a lovely view." He lifted an eyebrow, not taking that hint, and so she made her invitation more clear: "Would you like to watch the sunset with me?"

A heartbeat's pause, and then another, both felt and heard, so conscious was she of the blood coursing through her veins, of the warmth of him only a step away, and of all the possibilities that might unfold. His grey eyes narrowed as he tilted his head slightly to one side, his gaze direct and searching, his expression serious. Then he smiled, just a little, and Cassandra started to breathe again as he said the word she had been waiting to hear.

"Yes."

* * *

><p>The winter solstice sunset was magnificent. They stood side by side in front of the library window, watching as the brilliant orb sank behind a jagged black peak, and layers of pink and gold flared across the sky. Slowly they faded into deep blue, and one by one the stars began to show.<p>

When night had settled on the land, Cassandra turned to him. "Thank you for joining me."

"Thank you for asking." It was a good end to a good day. Connor didn't often see both the sunrise and the sunset anymore. "Dinner?" he suggested, and they went to the refectory to eat.

The next day Cassandra suggested they go horseback riding along the river. They met at the stables at the edge of town and picked out mounts: a sturdy Morgan gelding for him and a grey Arabian mare for her. Snow was falling as they returned, and as he rode behind her on the narrow path he watched the slow gathering of crystal spangles in her hair. Long ago, there had been another winter evening of falling snow. In the sacred spring surrounded by ancient oaks, he had kissed away the snowflakes that sparkled on her naked skin.

"See you tomorrow?" he said after they'd put the horses in their stalls, and Cassandra gave him a brilliant smile and said yes.

On Christmas Eve, they went to the concert in the village church, a stone-walled space filled with music and candlelight. Cassandra was all in green, save for the silver necklace with the triple crescent that she always wore. Alex had given it to her the year the twins were born, and Cassandra had been delighted, for it was the symbol of the ancient sisterhood of priestesses that she had belonged to, long ago.

Connor and Cassandra walked back together, through another night of crystal starlight and soft glow of a nearly full moon, high overhead. As they climbed the steep hill to the castle, Cassandra was singing one of the songs. Connor picked up the harmony, though he didn't know the words. They went through one entire verse before she was laughing too hard to sing. "What is that you're saying?"

"Asparagus," he answered. "It works for everything." He started singing it to the tune of "O, Canada" and then switched to "Carol of the Bells." Cassandra laughed again then joined him, and as they entered the courtyard they stopped walking to finish with a rousing chorus of "spara-spara-spara-gus-gus."

"Thank you," she said, and he was surprised to see the glisten of tears in her eyes. "I've missed singing with you." Her laughter turned to a wistful smile. "I've missed you."

Connor lifted an eyebrow in puzzlement. "I've been living here for almost a year, and we see each other nearly every day."

"We see each other," she agreed. "Sometimes we work together or eat together or go to the dojo together. But until this week, we haven't gone riding together or sung together. I've wanted to." Her eyes were dark in the moonlight, and her smile slipped away. "I've wanted…"

"What do you want from me, Cassandra?" Connor asked. He had asked her that before, sometimes in seething rage, sometimes in utter frustration, and sometimes—like now—out of a simple desire to know where he stood with this woman. He thought he knew, but he'd been wrong before, and he wanted to hear it directly from her. Besides, she owed him the truth.

She answered first with her eyes, a direct and serious gaze, and then she said, "Forty-six years ago, you gave me the chance to be your friend. I have treasured your friendship every day." She tilted her head slightly, still looking at him, eyes glinting from under long lashes. "Now, I want the chance to be more than friends." Slowly, carefully, she laid her fingertips on the back of his hand, barely touching, yet never taking her gaze from his.

"I want to watch sunsets with you," she said. "I want us to go riding together, to read poetry to each other, and to bring each other cups of tea."

Simple enough. He'd done as much with Duncan, though usually they brought each other whisky or beer instead of tea. Small acts of friendship, a regular sharing of each other's lives.

"I want us to sing with each other," Cassandra said.

Her fingertips slid round to his, still barely touching, but there for him to take into his own hand, if he chose. In the long winter evenings in the Highlands, they'd often sung together while Cassandra played the harp. That had been four and a half centuries ago, and Connor still remembered the shimmering play of firelight in her eyes.

"I want the chance to sing to you," she said next, her eyes darkened and her words husky with desire, and now Connor remembered the caresses of her voice, the softness of her lips, and the silken touch of her hair on his bare skin. "I want to make love to you, Connor," Cassandra said, with an honest directness that sent a torrent of lust spiraling through him and left his mouth dry.

He didn't dare respond. The sharing of each other's bodies could be simple— paid for in coin, or offered for comfort or fun with no deeper ties, but Cassandra was talking about sharing both bodies and souls. Connor had done that with only a very few women. He'd loved each of them, and he would never forget them. But they were gone. "Remember me when you need to, or when you want to, Connor," Alex had said to him on the night before she had died. "But don't cling to me forever. Let me go, so you can go on." That had been fifteen years ago, and it was time to go on.

Cassandra smiled up at him, saying softly, "And I would love for you to make love to me."

Then she stepped back, and the ghost touch of her hand went away. "That's what I want from you, Connor," she said, sounding cheerful and forthright. "Let me know what you want from me." Then she was gone.

For a long time, Connor stayed in the courtyard, looking up at the darkness and the stars.

* * *

><p>The next day, he sought out Cassandra and found her in the music room, high in the circular southwest tower. The entire building was quiet this Christmas morning, and she was alone. He pulled up a chair next to her. "We should talk."<p>

"Yes," she agreed, setting aside her harp then waiting for him to start.

"What you want from me," he began carefully, "I'm not sure I can give."

"It's the bringing cups of tea to each other, isn't it?" She shook her head sorrowfully. "I knew that was too much to ask."

"No," he said, smiling. "I could do tea."

"It's the poetry then," she guessed next. "You prefer prose?"

"I could do poetry. And prose."

She tilted her head to one side, brows furrowed in concern. "You're not interested in sex?"

"Oh, I'm interested."

That got him a flicker of a smile. "Good," she murmured then settled back and waited for him again, seriously this time.

"I care for you, Cassandra, and I'm glad we're friends," he said. "And I am interested." He'd thought about little else last night, especially after the dream he'd had. Still, honesty was part of a being a friend. "But I don't love you."

"I know," she said calmly. "I didn't ask for love."

He hadn't needed to hear the word. "That doesn't mean you don't want it."

"True," she admitted. "But I won't ask for it. Love must be freely given."

He agreed with that, and before this conversation, he had thought she loved him. But she wasn't saying so, and suddenly, he wasn't that sure. But he couldn't ask, especially after what she'd just said. Connor went back to his original question. "What do you want from me?"

"What I need," she began, laying stress upon that word, "is your honesty and your guidance, to help me find my way."

"Anamchara," he summed up, an old Gaelic term for a confessor.

"Friend of the soul," she agreed. "I'd been lost a long time. You've helped me in so many ways, Connor. You've been a touchstone for me. I still need that."

"We all do."

"Yes," she said, that single word soft and heavy with regret over things done and undone. They shared a brief, thin smile of understanding, and then her face became serious again. "What I want from you," she went on, "is emotional intimacy. I want your affection, your respect, and your friendship. I'd like to laugh with you, and I'd like you to hold me when I cry."

He could do that. He'd been doing that for nearly fifty years.

"And I want physical intimacy," she added next. "I want your tenderness, your passion, and your desire," and her voice went husky, the last word lingering on her tongue.

He had done that long ago, and he was interested now. Connor had to admit that when you added all of those together, it sure sounded like love. Even so, he couldn't say it, not to her.

"Deeds matter more than words," she observed.

Connor nodded slowly, for that was true. But words helped. And when partners weren't well-matched in what they wanted, relationships dissolved into disappointment and resentment, then bred bitterness and rage. He'd seen it happen before. "I don't want us to hurt each other again, Cassandra." They'd damn near destroyed each other—they'd even killed each other—when they'd been lovers, and simply by saying that, he'd made her eyes brim with tears.

"Connor—"

"I treasure our friendship, too," he explained. "I don't want us to lose that by becoming lovers."

* * *

><p>Connor did not have a good Christmas. After he'd turned her down, Cassandra had brushed away her tears, nodded to him, then walked with head high out of the room. He wandered the mostly empty halls and castle for a bit, noticing a few surveillance cameras that could use repositioning and a few other things he should talk to the Erika, Tetrarch of the Guard, about, then he went for a long run in the hills. People were singing carols in the common room after dinner, but he went to his own room with a book and a bottle, then went to bed alone.<p>

He dreamed of Cassandra again, of her body half-hidden by the living curtain of her hair as she danced in a meadow, of chasing her beneath the shadows of trees, of lying down on a bed of moss and burying himself in the softness of her, with her legs wrapped about him and her hands tangled in his hair.

When he woke, he cursed his own fine words and his honorable nature. But he'd done the right thing, and they'd both be glad of it in the years to come. She might not want to see him for a while; she might even suggest one of them move. But in time, she'd get over her disappointment, and they could go on being friends. Getting over a failed love affair was much more difficult, probably impossible.

Connor went running and then to the gym to work out, where he also spent the expected thirty minutes on a generator bike, and ended at the dojo to practice. After lunch, he went to his office to review the training schedule and roster assignments for the upcoming year. Early that afternoon, Amanda arrived.

"Connor, darling!" she said with a kiss on the cheek and a swirling cloak of green, gold, and cream decorated with flowers all around the hem, hand-woven by the look of it. She planted herself on his desk, extending one leg to admire its booted elegance, then smiled at him. Her hair was blonde and shorter than his. "Merry Christmas," she said, handing him a small package wrapped in white paper and red ribbons.

He untied each of them, ignoring her exasperated "Oh, get a knife!", then carefully unfolded the paper to find a tin of Scottish shortbread, the kind with the picture of the dog in a tartan. "I thought you might be missing the Highlands," she explained.

"Thanks," he said wryly and offered her one. They sat, munching cookies, and she chattered on about an amusing play she'd seen in London –"As witty as Oscar's!"—and a woman she'd seen in Paris—"Oh my goodness, her hair!"—and the difficulties in getting a reliable supply of gold and platinum and other supplies for her jewelry studios. All the rare-earth metals were rare indeed.

"On your way to Vienna?" he asked, when he could get a word in.

"Yes, I was tired of sitting on the train, passing through all those deserted villages—it reminded me of the plague years—and then this village came along, and it actually has people—"

"That's because of the school," Connor interjected.

"Yes, of course, jobs and children and so forth," Amanda agreed and kept on talking, "so I thought I'd stop off to thank Cassandra for my Christmas present." Amanda stood and twirled, so that the cloak flared about her, then struck a model's pose, one foot forward, hand on her hip, and a sultry, sulky, come-and-get-me look.

"Very nice," Connor said. Cassandra had been weaving a lot this year.

"Do you know where she is?" Amanda asked.

"No." He hadn't seen Cassandra since yesterday morning. Amanda raised an eyebrow at him, so Connor shrugged and suggested, "You can call her, but reception can be lousy in the castle, especially the lower levels. If she doesn't answer, try the music room. Or her suite. Maybe the gym."

"I'll do that," she said, but she went back to sitting on the edge of his desk. "First, though, I'd like your opinion."

"Really," he said, leaning back in his chair. Amanda usually made up her own mind or told other people what she thought.

She pulled out another package, a small rosewood box with inlay of mother-of-pearl, and set it on his desk. "I found this at an estate sale."

"Ah. My professional opinion."

Amanda fluttered her eyelashes at him. "Do tell me how I can repay you, kind sir."

Connor was already examining the box for makers' marks. He looked at the hinges and the joins, then opened it to reveal a gold-embossed locket on a string of black beads. He picked it up carefully and looked it over, noting the original clasp and the replacement cord, knotted neatly between each hand-carved bead. The original silk cord would have rotted away by now. "The necklace is British, most likely from Whitby, mid to late 1800s. After Prince Albert died, Queen Victoria made jet popular. The locket would have held a lock of hair or a miniature of a loved one, probably deceased. The gold medallion adds value, and the seed pearls are all there. A nice piece." He laid it back in the box, carefully arranging the beads.

"And the box?" she asked.

"Nothing special and not original. I've been out of the business for sixty years, but I would have priced the necklace at about seven hundred pounds."

Amanda, amazingly enough, did not seem interested in the money. "Oh, I'm not selling," she said, stroking the smooth curve of the locket before snapping the box lid shut. "I bought it because it reminded me of Rebecca. She had a piece like this. She liked to wear it with a sea-green dress."

"I remember," Connor said. The gown had set off the red-gold of Rebecca's hair, and the jet had emphasized the creamy whiteness of her skin.

"That's right; she was wearing it when we met you and Duncan in Chicago in eighteen-ninety…"

"Eighteen-ninety-three," Connor supplied. He and Duncan had been traveling from San Francisco to Boston, still amazed at the ease of riding in a train compared to walking or riding a horse across a continent. Rebecca and Amanda had been traveling in the opposite direction. The four of them had surprised each other in a restaurant, then stayed together for a few weeks while they toured the World's Fair.

"How many times did you and Rebecca ride in Ferris's wheel?" Amanda asked.

"At least ten. It was wonderful view." Rebecca had been a wonderful woman.

"I was so glad when you two got together," Amanda said.

"Because it meant the four of us could double-date?"

She wrinkled her nose at him. "Better than having either of you hovering around like chaperones."

Connor snorted in disbelief. "We never even dreamed of trying to chaperone the two of you." When he could, he'd take hotel rooms down the hall to get away from the noise. Amid giggles, Rebecca had told him she'd done the same.

"Well, Rebecca wouldn't travel with us unless you came along." Amanda leaned over and laid her hand on his forearm. "You made her very happy, Connor. She was quite fond of you."

"And I of her," he answered. Rebecca had been a haven for him through the years. She'd always welcomed him and made him feel at home, and she'd never pressed him to stay or tried to say goodbye. It had been simple and straightforward, a time of comfort, sex, and relaxation, neither expecting more. Connor had appreciated that, and treasured her.

"You know what I like about immortal couples?" Amanda said and then answered her own question. "We aren't possessive, the way mortals are."

"Some of us are. Kristen Giles? Carlos Sendaros with Grace?"

Amanda waved that away. "They were crazy, so that proves my point. Most of us come and go in each other's lives, just enjoying the chance to be together. Haven't you found that to be so?"

In two hundred years, he'd never asked Rebecca about her other partners, nor had she asked him. Alex Raven hadn't asked either. Caroline had been a week-long fling during a visit with Voltaire to the country house of Emilie du Chatelet, and Connor had never even seen Caroline again; she'd lost her head to the guillotine in 1804. Though he had spent one special night with Evann, they were friends, not lovers, and they both liked it that way.

Cassandra had actually seemed glad when Connor had found mortal women to love, and he himself had been glad to hear that Rebecca had married in 1979. Amanda and Duncan certainly seemed to enjoy their open relationship, and so did Elena and Duncan, and Ceirdwyn and Duncan, and a few others whose names he forgot.

Connor shrugged. "I suppose. Some of us get married. The de Valincourts. The Galatis."

"That doesn't necessarily mean they're monogamous," Amanda said. "Robert and Gina play all kinds of games."

Connor did not ask for details.

"Do you think that's because we have more time?" Amanda asked. "We're not worried about losing our only chance to be together?"

"Maybe." Time to change the subject. "Have you seen Duncan lately?"

"We spent June in Sweden, just before he took that search-and-rescue job in Caen." Her gaze unfocused with memory, and her smile was brilliant and tender at the same time. "I love that midnight sun!" Amanda stretched luxuriously with toes pointed and fingers extended, like a cat about to go hunting, then came to her feet. "Merry Christmas, Connor," Amanda said with farewell kiss on his cheek. "And happy New Year's Eve, a week early." She kissed his other cheek. Then she smiled impishly, ran her fingers lightly across his beard as she said, "And a very happy early birthday," and kissed him lightly on the mouth.

She exited with a swirl of her new cape and a sharp clicking of her elegant heels.

Connor leaned back in his chair again and turned to look out the window. Amanda was a self-centered thief and an incorrigible flirt who excelled at both cattiness and bitchiness. Ever since they'd met, Amanda had made it abundantly clear that she was available if he was interested. He'd never shown interest.

Amanda could also, when the mood took her, be extremely generous. Since her tour of the Mediterranean with Cassandra back in 2006, Amanda had taken to treating Cassandra as a project, in much need of help with her love-life, her hair, and her clothes.

So with all this talk of immortal couples, was Amanda laying groundwork for Cassandra (and had Cassandra had put her up to it?) or for herself?

* * *

><p>In the open courtyard, Amanda called and got an answer. "Amanda! I'm so glad you're here!" Cassandra said. "I'm in the music room; I'll be right down."<p>

"Stay where you are; I'm coming to you," Amanda said and crossed the courtyard and climbed the winding stairs. She was still a floor below when she felt Cassandra's presence, a low humming at the base of her skull, and then she heard the music: rippling arpeggios on a harp, over and over again.

It stopped when she opened to the door to the sun-filled music room, and Cassandra set the harp upright. Her outfit—a well-fitted black and white Nordic sweater and sleek trousers of green, over slouched black suede boots with a very low heel—looked well enough, even if it had clearly been chosen first for warmth and only then for fashion. The intricate silver dangling earrings added a nice touch, like falling snow. Amanda was pleased to see that Cassandra had taken some of her lessons to heart.

"Don't you know any songs?" Amanda asked as she crossed the wide expanse of gray stone.

"Finger exercises," Cassandra replied, coming toward her to share a hug. "You look wonderful! I love the blonde hair. And the cut."

Amanda ruffled her fingers through her short locks. "I had it done while I was in Sweden this summer to keep Duncan's eyes from wandering," she confided. "How long is your hair now?" she asked, for Cassandra had braided her auburn tresses and wound the plaits in intricate ways.

"Down to my knees."

"Goodness. I don't think I'd have the patience."

"It helps to keep me warm," Cassandra said.

And, Amanda was sure, it helped to keep Connor's eyes from wandering. Rebecca had mentioned that Connor liked to brush her hair in the evening before they went to bed.

"Though I am thinking of cutting it," Cassandra added.

"Oh." That did not bode well for the two lovebirds. But first… Amanda spun around so that the cape flared out. "Thank you for my Christmas present; I love it!"

"You're welcome. And thank you for the loom. I've been enjoying it all year."

"I'm glad. Duncan was telling me about a weaving class he took, and I thought: 'I bet Cassandra would like a loom.' He helped me pick it out. And I have an idea for a new line of handwoven clothes at the boutiques; spider-silk has a lovely drape. I'll have some sketches ready soon."

"I'm looking forward to it," Cassandra said, and then they sat on the couch in front of one of the arched windows.

"I just saw Connor," Amanda announced and was not surprised to see that Cassandra did not smile at the mention of his name. Connor hadn't smiled at the mention of Cassandra's name, either. "He seemed a little down," Amanda commented, and Cassandra gave a tiny shrug, as if she didn't care. "What's wrong?" Amanda asked.

Cassandra sighed and said simply, "He said no."

"Oh, sweetie," Amanda said and patted Cassandra's hand. Still, Amanda had learned long ago that no could sometimes mean "not yet", especially where sex was concerned. People tended to be skittish. They needed time. They needed courting. "Was it the 'Absolutely not' or the 'This isn't a good idea' kind of no?"

"It was the 'He doesn't think he would be good for me' kind of no."

"Oh, the chivalrous no." Amanda shuddered. "Honestly, these MacLeods! Sometimes they act as if they were the older ones."

"He's acting as if I were mortal," Cassandra explained. "As if I needed protecting."

"That's what he's used to, isn't it? He's had three mortal wives, and quite a few mortal girlfriends." Amanda tapped her fingers on the couch, thinking. "Besides you and Rebecca, how many immortals has he been with?"

"Connor was with Rebecca?" Cassandra said with blank surprise.

Amanda looked back just as blankly. "I thought you knew."

"He's never mentioned it. Neither have you."

"I'm sorry; I just assumed…"

"It's all right," Cassandra said quickly. "I was simply surprised. When did they meet?"

"About fifty years after Rebecca and I first met Duncan in Italy, so that would have been 1680-something. But they didn't become lovers until two centuries later, in Chicago at the World's Fair."

Cassandra nodded, and a slow smile spread over her face. "I bet the four of you had fun."

"Oh yes! But not… together," Amanda hastened to add. "Duncan and Connor don't…"

"No," Cassandra agreed. After a moment she commented, "Pity."

"Yes," Amanda agreed. It was. She sighed and moved on. Time to get back to the problem at hand. "So who else has Connor been with?"

"I have no idea," Cassandra said. "Except for Evann. But only once with her."

"I don't know her," Amanda said, but that didn't matter. One-night stands simply proved her point. "We know both you and Rebecca let him come and go as he pleased." She peered at Cassandra. "You did, didn't you?"

"Of course."

"Good. He and I talked about Rebecca today, and I pointed out that immortals aren't possessive. That should help."

"Did you do that for my benefit, or for yours?" Cassandra asked.

Amanda gave her a happy smile. "In the long run, it might benefit both of us. Make that all three of us—Connor would certainly benefit, too."

Cassandra did not seem pleased. "Amanda."

"What's the matter, girlfriend?" Amanda teased. "Don't want to share?"

"Wait your turn," was the quick—and rather sharp—response.

"Oh, darling, I'm just trying to help," Amanda protested. "You know I would never poach. Not while you two are actively involved." Immortals weren't that possessive, but they were territorial, and you didn't cut in when someone else was dancing. Not if you wanted to stay friends. And Amanda did. There just weren't that many immortal girlfriends around.

"Connor and I aren't actively involved," Cassandra said next.

"Oh, yes you are," Amanda reassured her. "Even if the action hasn't started yet. It will. He just needs a little time and some encouragement. And you and I," she said, taking Cassandra's hands in her own, "will figure out how."

* * *

><p><strong>Continued in Double Jeopardy, in which Methos and Duncan go spelunking<strong>


	8. Double Jeopardy

**DOUBLE JEOPARDY**

* * *

><p><em><strong>Caen, France: Saturday 27 December 2042<strong>_

* * *

><p>"Amanda's in town?" Methos asked Duncan, dangling a lacy black bra from one finger. A thong of black and silver satin hung from the nose of the Chinese porcelain lion in front of the stone fireplace, and, like breadcrumbs, other articles of clothing led the way to Duncan's bedroom door, now firmly shut. Methos knew the woman was an immortal; now that he was in the house he could sense the double presence, like a faint echo.<p>

"No," Duncan said shortly, giving a sharp tug to tighten the drawstring on his pajama trousers, which were also black and made of silk. Though the room was chilly, that was all he wore. Methos took a moment to appreciate that.

"It's not Cassandra's, is it?" Methos asked in simulated horror then took a closer look at the bra. "No. Not her size." He dropped the bra back on the chair where he'd found it then lounged on the leather sofa, his feet on one arm and his head on the other, using the folded plaid blanket as a pillow. "Let's see," he began, ostentatiously stroking his short beard between thumb and forefinger, in the clichéd manner of deep thinkers everywhere. MacLeod, true to form, was bucking fashion and was still clean-shaven. At least his hair wasn't clipped extremely short; it was long enough to curl at the back of the neck and about the ears.

Methos went back to considering the identity of the woman in the other room. "MacLeod's immortal lovers who are still alive and have a taste for exotic and expensive accoutrements," he mused aloud. "Who could it be?"

Duncan stalked past him on bare feet into the kitchen, and then came the sound of running water. Methos watched Duncan's image in the mirror over the fireplace and started ticking off names on his fingers. "Kira of Sparta—no, I'd say she's more of an athletic type . It's clearly not Grace."

Duncan's broad shoulders twitched a bit, probably a silent snort of laughter, then he brought out cups—three of them, Methos was pleased to see.

Methos kept going. "Elena and Angelina are both still married…" Ingrid might have worn a bra like that, but Duncan had taken her head some fifty years ago. Nefertiri—also dead, also by Duncan's hand. Kristen definitely would have worn something like that, but she was dead at Methos's hand. Michele, yes, but she was too young and too much like a student or a daughter; Duncan wouldn't touch her, at least not until she was a century old or so. Who was left? Ah, yes.

"Ceirdwyn the warrior princess," Methos called out. "Except I see her in leather." He hadn't actually, but he certainly wouldn't mind. Methos tilted his head back far enough so that he could actually see Duncan, who was now slicing bread with a knife. "Don't tell me you finally breached the walls of Castle Raven?" Alex Raven was one of the very few women who had resisted Duncan's charms, though according to a chronicle from the mid 1700s she had succumbed to Connor's charms, such as they were.

"Are all Watchers such voyeurs?" Duncan demanded, the knife upright in his hand.

"Reading chronicles is better than watching soap operas,' Methos said cheerfully. "The Dunanda shippers—

"The what?"

"The Duncan-Amanda shippers," Methos explained. "The ones who think you and Amanda should be in relationship."

"Oh good god," Duncan said, looking stricken.

"They had betting pools on how long she would stay with you during visits." Methos shook his head sadly. "I never won."

"Amanda will be happy to hear that," Duncan said, cutting the last slice with a decided downward stroke. "She doesn't like to be predictable."

Neither did Methos, which is why he'd stopped by to ask Duncan if he wanted to go spelunking beneath the streets of Paris in the old tunnels and catacombs. Duncan, however, was often predicable, and finding him with a woman was no surprise. Figuring out who was the fun part. "Ooh," Methos said, sitting up and summoning all the gleeful relish of a thirteen-year-old. "Is it someone new?"

Duncan didn't answer. "Why are you here?"

"Mi casa es su casa, remember?" Methos asked, making sure his tone stayed cheerful and light. "You gave me the door combination."And he'd given Duncan the key to his house in England, but Duncan had never visited him there. "If you didn't want me to use it," Methos said, "you should have changed it. Or put a tie on your door."

"I don't wear ties."

"I could buy you one. Silk?" he suggested silkily.

"I adore silk," a husky, yet ultra feminine, voice said from the bedroom door.

Methos had gotten to his feet and turned at the word "I" the better to see (and guard against) the mystery woman. Duncan always did have good luck with the ladies, and this one was delectable. Dark hair, green eyes, long legs, bedroom eyes, full lips, and wearing the other half of Duncan's pajamas. And nothing else.

Methos took a moment to appreciate that before asking, "Do you adore leather, too?"

She smiled, slowly, and stretched, so that the bottom of the shirt barely skimmed the tops of her thighs. "Can you see me in that? As a warrior princess?"

"Most definitely."

She stretched again, first one shoulder and then the other, like a cat, and the black silk robe moved in mysterious ways. She traced the line of her neck with a delicate finger, starting at the hollow of her throat and ending just under that exquisitely sensitive spot below the ear.

"Or in a ribbon," Methos added.

Now the fingertip traced its way back down. "Green?

Before Methos could answer, Duncan arrived to take charge, but before he could do that, she kissed him on the check and linked her arm through his, saying, "I didn't realize you two were friends, Duncan."

"I didn't know you two were… friends, either," he said, with admirable good-nature.

Then she turned to Methos and pouted prettily. "You didn't tell me about him."

"Can you blame me?"

"Yes." She smiled as she met his eyes, then her gaze lingered on his hands, even as she hugged Duncan's arm close to her breast. "But I can forgive you, too."

Methos rather liked the sound of that.

Then she looked up at Duncan. "Shall we forgive him together, Duncan?"

Methos carefully did not smile—or grin—as Duncan blinked then cleared his throat. "Um…" The faux-cheerful smile flared, Duncan's standard retreat from awkward moments, and he said brightly, "Nothing to forgive!"

"Then we'll just have fun," she said happily and kissed him on the cheek before stepping over to Methos and kissing his cheek, too. The scent of Duncan was on her skin. "I'll be back in a moment," she said and disappeared into the bathroom.

Methos was amused to see that Duncan was studiously examining the pattern of the black and white tiles underfoot and then the wood beams of the ceiling, and finally the window panes in the corner, all in an effort to look anywhere but at him.

"So…," Duncan said finally, with a careful exhalation.

"So," Methos agreed. With unspoken assent, they both went to the kitchen. "You know her as…?"

"Kate Cavanaugh," Duncan answered, cracking eggs into a bowl. "I met her in Ireland, five years ago. She took on a student a few weeks later, and that was finished last month. Kate was in Paris for the holidays, and we ran into each other at an exhibition at the Louvre and…"

Enough said. Methos nodded as he reached for a cutting board and a knife.

"I didn't want to name you," Duncan said next.

"Thanks," Methos said. He did like his privacy. "She calls me Philippe, from our time at the court of the Sun King, 1660 or so."

"And I should call you…?"

"Adam's fine."

"What do you call her?" Duncan asked, as Methos took an orange from the fruit bowl and tossed it high in the air.

Methos caught the spinning orange behind his back in his left hand then smiled with the utmost charm. "Serena."

* * *

><p>"Who's Amanda?" Kate asked at the end of breakfast, when the plates were empty save for crumbs and the coffee was nearly gone.<p>

Methos gave Duncan a cheerful smile, clearly waiting for him to respond. Kate was waiting, too, sipping from her cup and watching Duncan with interested eyes.

"A friend," Duncan answered.

"What's she like?" Kate asked next.

Describing Amanda was like grabbing a tornado. Duncan finally came up with: "Unpredictable."

Kate turned to Methos for more, and he immediately replied: "She's smart and sexy, and she doesn't follow rules."

Kate slowly twirled a lock of hair around one finger. "Is she…?"

"Oh, yes," Methos replied, and Kate smiled as she lowered her eyes and sipped at her coffee again. "I think you'd like her," Methos said judiciously. "Don't you, MacLeod?"

Duncan opened his mouth and tried to think of what to say.

Then Kate suggested brightly, "Shall we invite her to join us?"

Duncan managed an incoherent: "Um," as various possibilities flashed through his mind. Who would be with who? Methos was smiling again, his chin propped on his hand, his eyes slightly unfocused, obviously considering possibilities of his own. "I don't… think that's a good idea," Duncan said finally. "Amanda likes to be the center of attention."

Kate shrugged one shoulder, and the silk of the robe she was wearing slipped down and away. Her skin gleamed. Now her finger was playing with her lips, tracing the lower one, sliding in between. "I could pay attention to her, while you two pay attention to us."

The possibilities suddenly multiplied, and his mind supplied full-color images and sound. Duncan blinked then shot a desperate glance at Methos, only to find that the other man's lips, instead of curving upward, were now slightly parted and his eyes were glazed. "No," Duncan said firmly then stood to gather the plates and also get the hell away from there.

* * *

><p>Duncan wasn't all that excited about clambering through ancient tunnels, many of which would probably be flooded, but Kate, as always, was enthusiastic. Duncan had yet to hear her say no to anything.<p>

The three of them went to a store to pick up supplies and bought a pair of boots for Kate, then took the train to Paris. Throughout the city, the tunnel entrances had been blocked off by the authorities for safety reasons, but the basement of Methos's building held a way in, and he knew his way around. They spent the day beneath the streets, stepping over sewage, admiring the occasional wall painting, picking their way between piles of neatly stacked bones and pillars of leftover limestone, and estimating the age of the detritus they found.

"Eighteen hundreds," Methos said, holding up a broken bottle of green glass.

Kate took it from him, tilting her head so the lamp strapped to her forehead provided better illumination, then carefully rubbed her thumb along the broken edge and then the bottom. "I'd say seventeen hundreds, from the color, the double ring on the lip, and this pontil scar on the base."

Methos accepted her correction easily, saying, "I've usually concerned myself more with what's in the bottle than the bottle itself."

"Have you worked in a winery?" Duncan asked Kate, for such knowledge of old glass was unusual, even in immortals.

"Yes, when I was a nun in a convent in Andalusia," Kate answered.

"A nun?" Methos echoed, and his eyebrows and the corners of his mouth were all upraised. "You?"

Kate's answering smile was demure—but not innocent. "I didn't stay long."

Duncan completely understood. He'd lasted less than a year in a monastery. As he'd been leaving St. Christopher's he'd met Kristen Giles, who had been only too happy to help him make up for lost time. "I didn't stay long, either," he said.

Kate laughed aloud as she looked him over with a lustful thoroughness that warmed him despite the damp chill of the air and the cold seeping from the rock walls, and so Duncan looked her over in the same way. Even though she was wearing rubber boots, loose pants, and one of his sweaters that was much too big for her, she moved with the strength and grace of a dancer, and the long lazy glance from under lowered lashes was sultry enough to raise the temperature another few degrees.

A train rumbled by, somewhere off to the right and slightly below. When it had passed, Methos asked, "When where you a nun?"

Kate set the bottle back on the muddy ground as she answered. "The convent was in the tenth century, but I learned about glass in Venice in the seventeenth, after I married a journeyman in the trade. I've kept the family business all these years, though we had to leave Venice because of the flooding." Her smile brought out dimples. "And we're still making glass."

"For wine?" Duncan asked, for Kate hadn't spoken of this before.

"Yes, and thousands of other foods and drinks. The plastiphage has really opened that market to glass, though it's devastating other industries. They say ecoterrorists released it."

"Ecoterrorists," Methos repeated, with a shake of his head, using that sarcastic tone that could be taken in any number of ways. "Terrorizing the economy for the sake of the ecosystem."

"If it's a choice between money or the planet," Duncan said, "I'd like a planet, thanks." A livable one. He was tired of watching species disappear.

"Here I'd been thinking that all those little bits of plastic floating in the oceans would outlast even us," Methos said. "and now they're being eaten by the great plastiphage plague."

"And so ceramic and glass are looking better all the time," Kate said. "My company's most profitable branch is Kerametal; it specializes in ceramics for extreme conditions."

"Good for space ships," Methos piped up then explained, "Kerametal is one of our prime suppliers, and Serena is one of its lead engineers, as well as an owner."

"Oh," Duncan said, taking another look at his lovely bedpartner of the last few days. "I've been thinking of you as a weaver."

"Oh, I am," she said. "Weaving was my first craft. Then pottery, then glass and metals, and now ceramics." She grinned cheerfully. "I like to make things." She patted Methos on the forearm, saying, "So does Philippe."

"Oh," Duncan said, now taking another look at his enigmatic friend of the last fifty years. "Weaving?"

"Only stories," Methos replied lightly, then answered, "I was a stone carver in Ireland, and then a goldsmith. And I've worked in leather and clay, and quite a few other trades." Methos lifted one shoulder a fraction, dropped it. "Always more as a craftsman than an artist."

"You do excellent work," Kate contradicted then told Duncan, "When I lived in Kil-dara, I used to walk past one of his stone crosses every day. It was great fun to look at; he'd carved mice hiding all over it, and one very busy cat."

Duncan immediately took advantage of that opening. "Did you two meet in Ireland?"

Kate and Methos exchanged glances, each waiting for the other to reply. Eyebrows lifted, lips twitched, and somehow they came to silent agreement. "In Aurelianum," Methos said. "A bit south of here."

"Attila and his Huns were coming through Gaul," Kate explained, "and we found ourselves besieged for a time. Along with Lucianus, another immortal."

"Close quarters," Duncan observed. Immortals tended to prefer room to maneuver.

"Indeed," Methos agreed. "Happily, all three of us were friendly."

"Very friendly," Kate murmured, and there was another exchange of glances and more half-smiles.

Duncan decided not to take advantage of that opening, asking instead, "Did you fight in the Battle of Chalons?"

"God, no," Methos answered with a shudder. "I went back to Ireland as soon as I could and stayed there for three centuries, far away from the crumbling empire. Where did you go, Serena?"

"I was just coming from Ireland, so I went east. I wanted to see the world, and Lucianus went with me all the way to Constantinople. I last saw him in Sweden, about 1350. Have you seen him since then?" Kate asked Methos.

He looked away and didn't answer, and Kate said softly, "Oh." She closed her eyes for a moment then said simply, "When?"

"In 1542." Then Methos looked at Duncan before adding, "In Scotland, a place called Glen Coe."

"Ramirez?" Duncan said in surprise.

"You knew him?" Kate asked, sounding pleased.

"Only by reputation," Duncan said. "My teacher often speaks of him." He fixed his gaze on Methos before saying, "You never have, Adam."

Even with the goatee, Methos's lips said more when he wasn't speaking than when he was. A lightning-fast quirk on the right side showed weary wisdom and resignation, with a touch of wistfulness. "Other people have their own memories of him," Methos explained. "I didn't want to intrude."

"Yeah," Duncan agreed quietly. Neither Connor nor Cassandra would like sharing Ramirez with Methos, even centuries after the fact.

"Do you know what happened to Lucianus's katana?" Kate asked next. "It was magnificent."

"Yes, it is," Duncan agreed. He knew that sword intimately. It had sliced him a good one on several occasions. "My teacher has it."

"Really?" she said, lifting an eyebrow. "Do you think he'd let me look at it? I've learned so much about metals since then; I'd love to see it again."

"Ah, the eternal curiosity of the engineer," Methos drawled, but the words came with a fond smile, and Kate –Serena, now—smiled back, showing friendly warmth, not lustful heat.

Even so, as Duncan glanced back and forth between the two of them, he wondered if he should invite Amanda to visit after all. Then Kate looked straight at him—and she was Kate again—with those tempestuous bedroom eyes, and she smiled just for him, and Duncan decided one woman was all he could handle now.

"The sword's been reforged," Duncan told her, "but my teacher can talk to you about that. He was the sword smith." That got him a delighted smile complete with dimples, as if he'd given her a box of chocolates.

"Shall we move on?" Methos suggested. Duncan adjusted the lamp on his forehead, and once more they started down the ancient tunnel of stone.

* * *

><p>When they emerged from underground, it was full dark outside. They cleaned up in Methos's place, and then Serena suggested, "Dinner?"<p>

"I know a place," Methos said and led them to one of those little out-of-the-way cafés Paris has long been famous for.

Unfortunately, it wasn't out of the way enough. At the end of the meal, as Serena was laughingly feeding each of them spoonfuls of her crème brulee, an immortal appeared at their table. He knew Duncan, and Duncan knew him, and surprise, surprise, they didn't like each other.

To his credit, Duncan seemed willing to ignore the fellow, but when the other immortal started reminiscing fondly about hanging babies to strangle in nooses made from their own mothers' hair, Duncan pushed back his chair and stood. There was the requisite exchange of insults, complete with threatening body language and cold glares. If they had been wearing gloves, no doubt gloves would have been thrown. The dueling ground was agreed upon. Physicians were unnecessary; seconds were forbidden, and the choice of weapons was understood. The time was set for nine in the evening, less than an hour hence.

Then the immortal walked off, and Duncan sat back down and reached for his water glass.

"Duncan," Serena said in concern.

His answering smile was brilliant, charming—and empty. His thoughts were obviously already on the battle to come. Methos had seen Duncan in this mood before.

"It's all right," Duncan said to Serena. He pulled out his phone and announced, "I'm buying," then punched a few buttons and paid before anyone else could say anything. He turned to Methos. "Hang on to my phone for a bit, would you? I don't want it to get fried." Methos didn't reach for it, and Duncan laid it on the table.

"Duncan," Serena said again, laying her fingertips on the back of his hand. "You don't have to go." Duncan's eyes were full of darkness, and he didn't respond. She turned to Methos for support. "Philippe?"

Methos lifted one hand in resignation. "I've had this conversation before," he told her. He picked up his wine and slouched back in his chair.

Duncan patted Serena's hand gently then stood. She looked up at him, her mouth open to speak, but he kissed her instead. Then he nodded to Methos and walked away, the long black lines of his coat swinging nearly to his heels.

Serena watched him until he was out the door. Then she turned to Methos. "Is he addicted to the quickenings?"

Methos had considered that possibility before. "No," he said. "He's addicted to justice."

She wrinkled her nose, as adorable as a kitten. "It's not his job to rid the world of evil."

Methos decided not to mention Ahriman. Or the Horsemen. Or the Voice of Death or a few dozen Nazis or a Viking who liked to disembowel people or any number of other evil-doers that Duncan had ridden the world of. "MacLeod is a firm believer in the adage that for evil to flourish—"

"Good men need only do nothing," she completed. "And he sees himself as a good man."

Methos had considered that, too. "He has to."

Her smile was tight with pain. "Don't we all?"

Well, no. Methos had long ago decided that not actively being "evil" was enough on most days. "Middling decent" was something to aspire to, and "good" was a rare and unexpected treat. But Duncan was good. And good men fought with honor. Good men followed the rules. Good immortals put their own lives on the line to ensure that justice flourished in the world. Which meant that if they lost, there would be even less justice and less goodness in the world than if they hadn't fought at all.

Single combat to the death was a damned piss-poor system of government or law enforcement, which was precisely why good people usually took full advantage of their numerical superiority and banded together against bad people.

Except that would be against "The Rules." And only bad people broke rules.

Methos sighed. He felt, suddenly, very old and very tired. He finished what was left of his wine, then sat and stared at the thin film of red left behind in the glass.

Serena tossed her napkin on the table. "I can't just sit here. Shall we walk?"

As they picked up their coats, Methos snagged Duncan's phone from the table and slipped it into his pocket. Then Methos and Serena went out into the brisk night air. They walked arm in arm along the narrow streets of Paris, heading east.

After a time, Methos commented, "MacLeod said you recently had a student."

"Yes, these last five years. Sofie was ready to leave."

Methos caught the slight emphasis on the name. "Left early, did she?"

Kate grimaced slightly. "She didn't know enough. But then, they never do. And once they've decided they're ready, they don't see themselves as students anymore, so they don't want to learn." She shrugged in resignation. "I gave Sofie the name of a sword-master. Maybe she'll go. Someday."

"Maybe she will," Methos agreed. He looked up to see the tall towers of the donjon gleaming white in the distance. They passed into the Bois de Vincennes, underneath dark trees, coming ever closer to the dueling ground. It was nearly nine o'clock. "Do you want to watch?" Methos asked.

"No."

"Then let's wait here," he said, and they found a bench along the path. Soon enough, in the distance they heard the faint, harsh clamor of swords.

"Does Duncan have a yearning for death?" Serena asked, sounding genuinely curious.

"Don't we all?" Methos asked, echoing her earlier question.

"He's going to get himself killed." She sounded close to tears.

Methos knew exactly how she felt. "Eventually," he had to agree.

At that, Serena turned to look at him, her eyes searching his, and Methos couldn't hide. Some things were easier to see in the dark. "Oh, Philippe," she whispered, her fingertips cool upon his face. "Does he know?" she asked softly. "Have you told him?"

Methos caught her hand in his and stilled it. "I have found," he replied, "that it is hard to tell MacLeod anything." He smiled tightly. "He has to figure things out on his own."

"Don't we all," she said then kissed the back of his hand and laid her head upon his shoulder with a sigh. They sat in the darkness, their fingers intertwined, and waited.

When the lightning came, Methos closed his eyes, not wanting to see. Even so, flashes of jagged white burned through his eyelids, carrying ghosts of splintered pain. Screams echoed between the trees then died away.

"Come," Serena said, and she took his hand and pulled him toward the killing ground. Methos was looking up, hoping to catch of glimpse of the stars, when he heard Serena whisper, "He walks in beauty like the night," and there was Duncan, all the best of dark and light, standing still and silent between gnarled sentinels of trees.

Methos stopped. Even from here, even in the cold, he could catch the scent of boiled blood.

"Come," she urged, looking back at him, even while her body was turned to Duncan. "You can join us, you know."

Oh, Methos knew. Quickenings blasted away reason and restraint in a scorching torrent of lust and power, so that even a goat could look good. Methos wasn't going near Duncan now. "No."

Serena turned to him then, her eyes once more searching his. "He will come to you," she said earnestly. "Someday."

"I know," Methos agreed. He added with a smile, "After all, I still have his phone." But that wasn't a good reason to visit, so Methos gave it to Serena. He brought her hand to his lips, kissed her palm, and then let go. "Take care of him," he said.

Serena had never been one to argue. She nodded, kissed his cheek and whispered, "Au revoir, Philippe," then ran toward Duncan. Methos did not wait to see her reach Duncan, did not stay to see her pull him down with her to the forest floor, did not want to watch them drowning in that irresistible flood of raw desire.

On the long walk home on that winter night, made longer by his meanderings, Methos paused on a bridge above the Seine and looked down into the moving water, ripples flowing to the sea. "A mind at peace with all below," he murmured, wondering if Byron had thought to find peace when he had killed himself, a few years after writing those lines. Instead, he had revived to find himself an immortal, condemned to write elegy after elegy for the mortals he loved.

"The all of thine that cannot die," Methos quoted, remembering his pupil and friend. "Through dark and dread eternity. / Returns again to me."

Below him, the water flowed on, endless to the sea.

* * *

><p>Duncan slept fitfully that night, but whenever he woke, Kate was there. He took what she offered, fiercely at first, with the power surging raw along every nerve, as it had beneath the trees; then desperately, clawing his way through the darkness to bury himself in warmth of her, then finally, in the gray dim light of morning when the fires of the quickening had nearly burned away, tenderly, holding her in his arms and brushing the hair back from her face with gentle hands.<p>

"Good morning," she said, smiling up at him.

"Good morning," he answered then immediately added, "Thank you. For last night. I was—"

"I know," she broke in, much to Duncan's relief, and then she hugged him, her arms locked tight across his back, a gesture of pure comfort and reassurance, naked though they were. Duncan relaxed against her, closing his eyes. He wouldn't have minded staying there, but he knew it wasn't comfortable for her, so after a few moments he rolled to one side, bringing her with him, and they got settled again. Duncan fell asleep once more, soothed by the touch of her hands.

When he woke, Kate was still in the bed next to him, but fully dressed and on top of the covers. She was reading the news, lying on her stomach with her knees bent and her feet in the air, like a teenage girl. "Good morning," she said, setting her phone aside. "Or, rather, good afternoon."

Duncan squinted at the window, a bright glowing rectangle of pink against a pink-flowered wall. "Is it really?"

"Almost," she said cheerfully. "Are you hungry?"

His eyes snapped open. "God, yes."

"I had food sent up," she said, "though I'm afraid I drank the coffee and the cocoa has gone cold."

"That's fine," he said, sitting up and taking note of the surroundings in a way he hadn't been interested in doing last night. The bed took up most of the long narrow room. A single dresser stood near the door, and a pair of chairs and a narrow table of dark wood were arrayed beneath the too-pink window against the far wall. And on the table was the food.

He reached for the white cotton robe hanging at the foot of the bed, shrugged it on as he stood, then sat down to eat with single-minded purpose.

Kate joined him at the table. "We're in the Hotel St. Anne," she told him as he took a large bite of a pain au chocolat. Duncan closed his eyes as the buttery flakes melted in his mouth and the chocolate warmed enough to spread across his tongue. "About four blocks from the Bois de Vincennes," her voice went on. "The staff thinks you had a bit too much to drink last night."

Duncan grimaced even as he nodded and chewed. The aftermath of a quickening could be much like a hangover: sensitivity to light and sound and smell, headache, irritability or mood swings, plus an exasperating combination of nausea and hunger. This one, thankfully, wasn't that bad. He was simply hungry. Duncan drained the large cup of liquid chocolate, luxuriating in the thick sweetness, then reached for the pastry again. Kate took the cup and brought it back filled with water, and Duncan drained that, too. He'd lost some blood last night, and he knew he'd be thirsty all day.

He polished off the pastry, a cup of yogurt, and a plate of tartines with a potful of jam before he slowed down. He was still hungry, but he wasn't starving. More protein would help; they could go to lunch soon. But first, to get clean. In the shower, he lathered and scraped and rinsed himself twice before coming out to shave. His clothes were waiting for him, freshly washed and mended.

"Very nice," Kate said when he finally emerged and displayed himself for her approval.

"Very clean," he said in appreciation, rubbing his shirt sleeve where a sword cut had sliced through the fabric.

Her smile was highly amused. "I told the maid you'd fallen down."

"Drunk and disorderly in the gutter, eh?" Duncan said, and he took her by the hand and pulled her into his arms. "Thank you. Again." He kissed her soundly. "You've been marvelous."

"You're welcome," she said. "I've had fun, too." Her dimples showed again. "Lunch?"

* * *

><p>Back in Caen that evening, they ate dinner in his house then settled on the sofa with drinks of whisky. Kate was leaning her back against the arm of the sofa while Duncan massaged her feet. "Do you want to talk?" she asked after he'd done her left foot. "About the fight? Or the quickening?"<p>

"No."

"All right," she agreed instantly.

"Thank you," Duncan said yet again, appreciating both her offer and her acceptance. Sometimes talking helped, sometimes it made it worse. He'd rather talk about other things. He cradled her right heel in the palm of his hand and applied gentle pressure with his thumbs to her sole as he asked, "Do you like to be called Kate? Or Serena?"

"It doesn't matter," she said. "I've had many names. Haven't you?"

"No."

"Oh," she said, as her eyebrows went up in surprise. "So you really are Duncan MacLeod. Of the clan MacLeod?"

"Yes."

"Scottish indeed," she murmured. She seemed pensive suddenly, swirling the golden liquid in her glass around. "My birth name was Doirionn. But I haven't used it since the first time I died. The new life needed a new name."

"Many people feel that way," he said then, since she had brought up the subject, he asked, "Where were you born?"

"It's called Ireland now. When I was born, it was Dal Riata, the kingdom of the waves."

"Then we're clan," Duncan said with delight. "That kingdom covered the west of Scotland, too, including Glenfinnan, my birthplace."

She shook her head reprovingly. "That kingdom disappeared a thousand years before you born, Duncan."

"Different names and different boundaries, same people," he said, now walking his thumbs up and down the sole of her foot. "I'll bet that in your village they wove plaid, drank whisky, and raised sheep, same as in mine."

"We stole sheep," she informed him. "And cows."

"Aye," he agreed with a smile. "We stole sheep and cows as well. And we fought and we swore and we kept grudges too long."

"Then you're right," she admitted, matching his smile. "Definitely the same people."

"Same clan," Duncan said and he reached over to the table for his glass then lifted it in a toast. They drank together, then Kate refilled both their glasses. Duncan reached for the lotion and smoothed it into her skin, starting at the ankle and working toward the toes. When he glanced up, Kate was regarding him thoughtfully, her head tilted to one side, green eyes as unblinking as a cat. "What?" Duncan asked.

"Yesterday morning," she said, "when I suggested the three of us could have fun together, did you say no because you don't like threesomes or because you don't like Philippe?"

Once again with Kate, Duncan found himself with open-mouthed and trying to come up with something more eloquent than "um." This time he managed a "Well." Then he added, "I was surprised." Kate lifted an eyebrow, clearly waiting for more, and with good reason. He hadn't answered the question. "I do prefer twosomes," Duncan explained. "It's easier to focus."

Kate nodded, a small smile of understanding on her lips. "Because there's only one 'center of attention'."

Duncan made Kate the center of his attention, leaning forward to reach for her hand and looking into her eyes. "Yes."

Her smiled turned knowing, and she patted his hand. Then she asked: "What is Philippe—Adam—to you, Duncan?"

Duncan had been expecting her follow-up question, and he had come up with an answer to that years before. His bent his head as he industriously went to work on Kate's toes. "A friend."

"That's exactly how you described Amanda."

"Yes," he agreed. "But—"

"But she's a woman," Kate finished for him. "You don't like men?"

Duncan stopped himself from saying "um" and also stopped the massage. He answered plainly, as if she'd asked him about his taste in wine. "In bed, I prefer women. How about you?"

"Oh, I prefer men,' Kate answered, giving him a happy smile and an appreciative look. "But I'm not averse to a change in pace now and then."

Duncan had always found that women could put him through his paces just fine.

"Do you think being with men is wrong?" she asked next.

"No. I used to," he said. "It's what I was taught." He grimaced slightly, remembering. "The church said a lot of things were sinful."

"I remember," Kate said, making a similar face. "Hence my short stay in the convent."

"I think the church was right about some things, but not everything, and certainly not about sex. After all, if I followed those rules, you and I wouldn't be together now." He gave her a happy smile and an appreciative look. "And I'm glad we are."

"As am I," she agreed and they leaned forward enough to kiss. Then Duncan went back to the massage, lightly enough to make her toes start to curl, and then a bit more firmly along the sides. "Oh, yes, right there," she said, and he spent more time on the arch until she sighed and closed her eyes.

He was almost done with her toes when she commented, sounding sleepy and with her eyes still closed, "I've found it's different, being with someone of the same sex — and not just physically. Since I prefer men, for me to want to be with a woman, the emotional connection is stronger."

"You suggested being with Amanda, and you've never even met her," Duncan pointed out.

"That was a foursome, for fun. For a twosome, when we're each others' 'center of attention,' it's… more intense."

"That makes sense," Duncan said. He'd sometimes tumbled into bed with women he barely knew out of simple mutual lust; he'd never done so with a man. A strong emotional connection always enhanced attraction.

"And I remember the women better," Kate added, her eyes still closed, "since there haven't been very many."

He understood that, too. Duncan had lost count of the women long ago, but he remembered every man. Each relationship had developed in a unique way over time, a careful and cautious dance of trust and vulnerability. Trust was always essential between immortals, and it was necessary with the mortals, too, since love between men had long been a dangerous secret to be kept hidden from the world. Some places had grown more tolerant these last fifty years or so, but in many societies having the wrong bedpartner (of any sex) could still get you killed.

He finished the massage with a light allover stroking and another application of lotion then stretched out alongside her on the sofa. He pulled the plaid he'd woven over both of them as a blanket, and smiled as she fingered the weave.

"You're marvelous," Kate said, snuggling against him. "Thank you."

Duncan dropped a light kiss on her forehead. "You're welcome."

They lay there in silence, holding each other, until Kate asked, "Are Amanda and Adam alike?"

Duncan thought about his friends for a moment. "They're both casual about rules, though they'd probably call it being pragmatic. As friends, they both challenge me, they surprise me, and they make me laugh." He smiled ruefully as he admitted, "And they can both be a pain in the ass."

After a pause, Kate said, "You're very lucky." Duncan looked at her in surprise, for she was seldom so serious, and she went on, "To find a friend—a partner—like that is rare. To have two…"

"I know," he said. He'd been very lucky—and he was still very lucky. He had Connor, too.

"And when you lose them…"

"I know," he said again, thinking of Fitzcairn and Richie now. Then Duncan realized that Kate's eyes had filled with tears, and he tightened his arm about her and said gently, "Do you want to talk about it?"

"I suppose I do," she said. "Thank you." She laid her head on his shoulder and intertwined her fingers with his. "He was young," she began, "barely a hundred when we met, but, oh! he was brilliant. Full of wit and daring… a challenge in so many ways. We had such fun!" Her smile disappeared. "Then the darkness came."

"The darkness?"

"When you've lived long enough that nothing matters. When laughter and joy are buried under layers of death and pain. When you're numb to the world, and you'll do anything—anything!—to feel again." She shrugged. "We all go through it. Some sooner than others. Some longer than others." She looked at him curiously. "Haven't you?"

Duncan swallowed hard. "At times."

"The first is usually the worst, and he was barely two hundred. I had hoped he would find someone to help him; instead, he found someone to kill him. I think part of him wanted to die."

"Yeah," Duncan breathed out. He knew that feeling. He'd seen it in others, too. His own student Gregor had been striking out at people in rage and despair, and Duncan had almost had to take his head to stop him. But Gregor had gotten through it, and he was a doctor again, working in Brazil. Duncan had gotten a card from him two years ago.

Kate was shaking her head. "Such a pity. Such a waste. His brilliance went dark then was shattered. I had hoped we might have years together."

"I'm sorry," Duncan said, for there was not much else to say. He wondered who it had been and how long ago, but Kate hadn't offered a name, a time or a place, and rules of immortal politeness forbade asking.

Kate smiled even as she wiped away tears. "They say that hope is happiness. And all that hope adored and lost hath melted into memory."

Duncan knew that poem. "Alas! It is delusion all—. The future cheats us from afar."

Kate met his eyes and quoted: "Nor can we be what we recall…"

"Nor dare we think on what we are," he finished.

They both were silent, thinking on that and on what they were, until she kissed him gently on the lips. "You certainly know your Byron," she said, back to her cheerful saucy self.

Duncan's answering smile flickered and died. He knew all of Byron's poems, every last one. Almost fifty years it had been, since Byron had died by Duncan's hand. Soon after, Duncan's own darkness had come upon him, and he had wandered, hoping to die.

Yet he had lived. He had found a wife and a family, and enjoyed many years full of sunshine and love. When Susan had died, he had grieved and wept and then gone on, as she would have wanted him to. And life was still good, and the world was still marvelous, and the night was still young.

Duncan stood, lifting Kate in his arms, and carried her off to bed.

* * *

><p>Kate left early the next morning, and he went with her to the train station. They chatted of this and that on the platform, and then as the train pulled in and they hugged farewell, Kate said softly, "Even for immortals, Duncan, the future cheats us from afar."<p>

She kissed him goodbye then the train doors were closing, and then she was gone. Duncan watched her train disappear, the dark-energy motors running silently, so that the metallic streak of blue and silver had no sound but the rumble of the wheels and the wind.

Duncan took the next train into Paris, but Methos wasn't at his apartment. Duncan left a message, both in paper and on the phone, then visited museums and ate lunch and went to St. Joseph's chapel and did a little shopping, but Methos never called. Toward evening, Duncan boarded the train back to Caen.

As the train picked up speed, Duncan watched the dark countryside flow by in flickers of lights. Duncan had hoped to talk to Methos, to thank him for the trip to the catacombs on Saturday, to ask him about Kate/Serena, perhaps play a little chess or drink some beer, or just go for a walk along the river or argue about whether astronauts or spacemen would win in a war. Duncan had been looking forward to seeing Methos today.

But Methos was gone. Again. No warning, no word, just gone. Amanda was equally unpredictable, but she always said farewell. Except for that time she'd framed him for robbery and stolen his horse, but that had been centuries ago. Good times, Duncan thought now with a fond smile. Good memories.

_Genuine love must prize the past, And Memory wakes the thoughts that bless…_

What memories did he have of Methos?

Lots of good talks and some searingly harsh words, plenty of wit and not a little wisdom, a man who had been a villain and would occasionally take up the role of hero, complaining all the while yet getting the job done… Fifty years of friendship, of learning about each other, of building trust and growing closer…

Yet always they had circled round each other, Duncan kept at bay by Methos's rapier sharp wit, Methos put off by Duncan's strong moral code, and both of them finding love with other people –with women.

What about love with a man?

Duncan knew that a physical relationship would not be casual between them. It wouldn't be "just for fun." He and Methos had waited too long. They wanted too much.

They were too afraid.

Afraid of trust, of vulnerability, of being hurt… and maybe, just maybe, of having to kill the other person some day. When they'd first met, Duncan had not wanted sex to complicate a friendship already complicated enough by feelings of betrayal and disappointment and uncertainty, and so he had ignored the many subtle and not-so-subtle hints and clues Methos had sent his way.

Then Duncan had walked alone into a darkness of the soul, and Methos had wisely let him go. A new life in New Zealand had kept Duncan busy for thirty years, and grieving for the loss of that life took another five. During the last eight years he and Methos had started circling each other again, spiraling closer.

But did he want to get closer still? Accept the emotional vulnerability that would come with physical intimacy? Did Methos? And even if they did want to, could they? Or were their patterns of defensiveness—that sarcastic wit and that automatic umbrage— too deeply ingrained?

Duncan didn't know. But it was time to find out. _All that Memory loves the most, was once our only Hope to be._

* * *

><p><strong>Next: Connor reconsiders his options<br>**


	9. Turnabout

**TURNABOUT**

* * *

><p><strong>Austria, Wednesday 31 December 2042<strong>

* * *

><p>On the last day of December, Sara and Alea returned from their trip to see Will. Connor met his "cousins" at the train station, and nearly got bowled over by Sara's exuberant hug. "Hey, Princess," he said softly into Sara's hair, deeply glad of her affection. "Welcome back."<p>

"Thanks, Dad," she said, even more softly, that name a whisper between them.

Sara pulled back, and they smiled at each other, then Connor gave Alea a quick hug. He was surprised to find Alea was taller than Sara; and he realized he hadn't hugged his granddaughter lately. She'd been his student for a year, and he never hugged students. But school was between terms, it was the holidays, and Alea was family, even if in ways she didn't understand.

"Happy New Year, Cousin Mike," Alea said. Her smile was just like her mother's, and he could see traces of Alea's grandmother and great-grandmother in her, too.

"Happy New Year," Connor replied, and it was. "How was your trip?"

"Good," Alea said. "The train broke down only once. I can't wait until they get the new dark-energy motors installed. And Will's coming soon!"

"To visit?"

"To live," Sara said, with the same delighted grin that Connor remembered from her fourth birthday party, when Connor and Alex had given Sara a tricycle.

"Sara, that's great news!" Connor said, and hugged her again.

"Yeah," Sara said, her grin softening to a smile, and she looked at him as she said, "It's good to have the family together again."

Connor couldn't have agreed more.

"Will says living with Miss Juliette isn't any fun," Alea explained as they walked to the luggage cart. "Too many rules. And Dad's working a lot, so Will's stuck with her." She settled her backpack across her shoulders before picking up a brown satchel.

Connor picked up Sara's bag before she got to it, and as she opened her mouth to protest, Connor said, "Hungry, Alea?"

"Starving," Alea said.

"I'll take you both to lunch," he said, and Sara opened her mouth to protest again even as Alea said, "Smashing!" Sara gave a tiny sigh then shook her head with a rueful, fond smile.

They ate at the Italian restaurant in town, and as they stepped out into the bright sunshine of the street, Alea spotted two of her friends. After the shrieks of reunion were done, the three girls decided to go shopping, and Alea went off with a happy wave, chattering in German with her friends.

"Back to the castle?" Connor asked.

"How about riding?" Sara suggested, and they left the bags in a locker at the train station and walked to the stables, buying a small bag of apples on the way. Connor saddled the Morgan, Sara picked a bay gelding, and they set off on the well-groomed riding trail along the river's edge. As they rode side by side, Sara told him that on the train ride to Bruges she had explained to Alea why Sara had been angry with "Mike" this past year.

"How'd Alea take it?" Connor asked.

"She took your side, of course. She told me I'd been silly, blaming you for something you hadn't done and didn't even know about." Sara narrowed her eyes at him. "And she was right, and I know that, so you don't have to say it."

He hadn't been going to. But he had been thinking it.

"Then she said that her dad had been silly, too. But Alea understands better now, both about you and me this last year and about why her dad took up with Juliette." Sara blew out a gusty sigh. "Then, after we got to Bruges, Alea told Daniel she thought he'd been silly, because 'Mike' and I hadn't ever been together and we certainly weren't together now."

"And how did Daniel take that?"

"I didn't see it. I didn't even know Alea was going to tell him, but after that he was quiet. Very quiet."

Connor understood that. It was never easy to find out you'd been completely wrong about someone, and it was even harder to realize you'd totally fucked things up because of it.

Sara adjusted her reins as her horse gingerly stepped through a dip in the path. "A day or two later, Daniel took me aside and said he had 'regrets'. Not exactly an apology, but I think we'll be getting along better now. He and Alea are certainly getting along better. And, Daniel knowing that 'Mike' is just a cousin helped a lot when Will said he wanted to come back here. It will still be a shared custody, but we're going to try it for a term. Will would have come back with me and Alea today, except he'd already made plans to go hiking with some friends."

"Good," Connor said. Sara was sounding happy, Alea was on better terms with her father, and Will would be arriving soon. Connor was looking forward to seeing how much his grandson had grown.

"So how was your holiday?" Sara asked.

"Fine."

"Good Christmas?"

"There was singing," Connor replied, which was true. "And raspberry torte for dessert."

Sara glanced at him sidelong before asking, "Any presents to open?"

"Yes," Connor said, truthful again. "Wrapped in red ribbons. I untied each one."

"From Cassandra?" Sara said with a smile.

"No, Amanda," he corrected, and Sara pulled her horse up short and stared at him with a look of mingled horror and shock, and Connor quickly realized why. Sara did not like Amanda; she never had, and from the chattering of Rachel and Cassandra and Elena and the archly suggestive comments of Amanda herself, Sara had heard of Amanda's famous Christmas cards (featuring herself decked out as a Christmas present, wearing high heels, a Santa hat, and a carefully positioned bow), and of the time Amanda had given Duncan a very special present under the Christmas tree. Oh, good God.

"Cookies, Sara," Connor said firmly. "Amanda gave me a tin of shortbread cookies, wrapped in white paper and tied with red ribbons."

"Oh," Sara said, with mingled relief and embarrassment. "Good." She clicked to her horse to walk again. "I didn't know Amanda was here."

"She stopped by on her way to Vienna the day after Christmas," Connor explained. "Just for the afternoon."

They ducked a low-hanging pine branch and eased their horses over a fallen log before Sara asked, "So what did Cassandra give you for Christmas?"

Cassandra had tried to give him quite a lot, and he'd handed it back to her, untouched. "We didn't exchange presents this year."

"Really?" Sara said in blank surprise. "I thought—" Her eyes narrowed. "How is Cassandra?"

"I don't know," Connor said, and Sara stopped her horse again. Connor asked his mount to do the same then said, "She left with Amanda." Cassandra hadn't said goodbye. Not that he had any reason—or right—to expect her to, Connor knew, but it had been a bit of a surprise to get only the impersonal memo she'd sent to all the staff.

"She left the day after Christmas?" Sara asked. "She's coming back for New Year's, isn't she?"

Connor shrugged. "Her memo said she'd be back before the Twelfth Night Ball."

"That's a week from now."

Connor shrugged again.

"Tomorrow's your birthday," Sara said.

"I know." Connor urged the gelding to a trot, and hooves thudded dully on the frozen ground. Sara's mount was close behind.

When they emerged from the trees and entered the meadow, its grasses bleached silver by frost, the horses lengthened their stride. "Follow the leader!" Sara called, a game they had often played in the Highlands, the whole family riding as one. Connor followed Sara's lead, asking his horse to match the bay's pace and lead changes as Sara maneuvered through the meadow, and then Sara followed him.

They finished near an ancient oak, a few brown leaves still clinging to its spreading branches. Sara and Connor unsaddled and unbridled the horses to let them graze. And roll, of course, which both horses did before beginning their never-ending search for food. With the mountains rising around them and the sky a brilliant blue, it was a beautiful, peaceful scene.

Sara took off her glove and laid her hand against the bark of the tree, listening, so Connor had been told, to the heartbeat of the tree. After about five minutes she opened her eyes. "Haven't seen you do that in a while," Connor observed. She glanced at him and nodded but said nothing, so he asked, "What did you hear?"

"Nothing." She put her glove back on as she walked over to him. "They sleep in the winter. I'll try again in the spring."

He put his arm around Sara's shoulders and she leaned against him, putting her arm about his waist as they watched the horses graze. Connor could have stood like that for an hour, but after only about twenty minutes of silence, Sara asked, "What did you say to Cassandra? To make her leave?"

"I didn't 'make' her leave," Connor corrected. "Cassandra decided to go."

"Right," Sara said, in the way that meant "wrong." She turned to face him full on. "What happened?"

Connor sighed, but he knew from long experience that the women of his family were stubborn. He liked them that way. Except at times, especially times like now.

Might as well get it over with. "She suggested we become lovers," Connor said. "I told her I thought it best we remain friends."

"Best for who?" Sara asked.

"Both of us," he said shortly.

"Dad—"

"Sara," he cut in. He would tell her what happened, but he wasn't about to discuss it in detail. "My love-life is not your concern."

"Of course it is," she contradicted. "You're my father. How can I not be concerned about you?"

Not so long ago, Sara wouldn't even call him Dad. But things were better between them now, which meant she cared, and he wouldn't have it any other way. "Good point," he conceded and amended his earlier statement: "My love-life is not your problem."

"Of course it is," she repeated, contradicting him again. "Mom said I was supposed to watch out for you."

"Your mother said—?"

"And so did Aunt Rachel," Sara added.

Connor gritted his teeth and reminded himself that he liked stubborn women. Really. And he liked knowing that the women he'd loved were still taking care of him, even after all these years.

But he didn't like talking, and he really didn't like talking about his personal life, and he sure as hell didn't like talking about his love-life with his daughter.

His daughter, however, had no problem talking to him. "Why don't you want to be with Cassandra?" Sara asked.

"We wouldn't be good for each other," Connor said bluntly. "Trust me on that." He started walking to the horses, pulling an apple out of his coat pocket.

Sara followed. "Because of what happened before, when she was lying to you because of the prophecy and Duncan and Roland? That's all over, so she's got nothing to lie about now."

He knew that. And he knew Cassandra wouldn't lie again, not to him. She liked her head. And Cassandra wouldn't lie to Sara, either. About twenty years ago, Connor had asked Cassandra exactly what she'd told his daughter about the past. "The truth," Cassandra had said. "I told her that you and I were student and teacher and then lovers in the sixteenth century; that I had treated you badly because of the Prophecy and immortality and my own emotional problems and so you had good reason to be angry with me, and that the year before she was born, I apologized to you and then you and I talked and decided to be friends." And that was the truth, in its bowdlerized Cliff Notes form. Sara didn't need to know more. Connor kept walking.

Sara kept talking. "And you're not teacher and student now—except in the dojo—so you won't get mad at each other about immortal training."

He hadn't just "gotten mad" at Cassandra about the training; he'd wanted to kill her. Just as she had killed him. Three times. But Connor knew that brutal indoctrination in immortality had helped him to survive through the centuries, and Sara was right: Cassandra and he weren't teacher and student anymore.

"So why do you think you won't be good for each other?" Sara asked, still stubbornly hunting.

Connor whistled to the horse and held the apple up. The Morgan pricked his ears and trotted over. Sweet apples beat frozen grass every time. The bay followed, and Sara gave him an apple, too. When the moist sound of crunching subsided, Connor started walking to the saddles. The horses came with him, looking forward to another treat. Sara came, too, blessedly silent.

He and Sara saddled the horses then gave them each another apple, warming the metal bits between their hands while the horses chewed. When the apple was gone, Connor bridled his horse, sliding the warmed bit into the mouth, then carefully tucking the furry ears under the crownpiece and straightening the forelock before fastening the throat latch. He checked the girth again and tightened it one more notch, then put a foot in the stirrup, ready to swing up into the saddle.

Sara laid one hand lightly on his forearm, a gentle touch that stopped him cold. Her eyes were grey, instead of Alex's or Rachel's blue, but the love and concern in them were exactly the same. So was the stubbornness. "Why, Dad?" Sara asked again.

Connor gave up and told her. "Because Cassandra loves me, and I don't love her."

Sara blinked at him in surprise then laughed as she contradicted him yet again. "Yes, you do."

Why the hell would women never believe a man? Rachel had said nearly the same thing when he'd told her he wasn't lonely. Brenda had often contradicted him, too. So had Alex. Heather hadn't been shy about letting him know when she thought he was wrong, either. "I care for Cassandra as a friend," Connor admitted, "but—"

"Oh, come on, Dad," Sara interrupted. "The way you look at her? That's not friendship. Why do you think Tanja and Zeni gave up flirting with you last summer?"

"Because I didn't encourage them." This past year at the school, where the ratio of female to male was about eight to one, he'd been very careful about not giving anyone encouragement. Students—no matter what their age—were always strictly off limits, and decades ago Connor had learned the hard way to remain totally professional, both inside and outside the classroom. Thankfully, most of the other teachers already had partners or just weren't interested, and so except for Tanja and Zeni, he hadn't had to deal with flirtatious co-workers.

"That helped, sure," Sara said, "but they gave up because they could see your attention was elsewhere. The students see it, too."

"Not all of them," Connor said, remembering a few very persistent young women.

"Oh, they see it. Those girls just don't care. They hit on married men, too. Daniel told me."

Connor shook his head. While the sexual revolution had definitely had interesting consequences, modesty was underrated in this modern world.

"How do you manage?" Sara asked, sounding genuinely curious. "Daniel's been gone for over a year and I'm going crazy, and I'm not surrounded by handsome young men vying for my attention."

Definitely underrated. Connor cleared his throat and avoided his daughter's eyes. "Come running with me tomorrow," he invited. "Twelve miles. Hills."

Sara wrinkled her nose but said, "I'll think about it." Connor turned back to the horse, but Sara kept talking. "So, you care for Cassandra, you're attracted to her, you don't have anyone else in your life. She definitely feels the same way about you, and she's done with lying and her emotional problems and the immortality stuff is taken care of, and yet you still turned her down. Why?"

Connor closed his eyes in a quick prayer for patience then faced Sara again. "Because caring and physical attraction are not the same as love, Sara."

"Sometimes they're enough," she said.

"Sometimes," he admitted. "But not when the other person loves you. And I don't love Cassandra, not like—"

"Not like you loved Mom?" Sara finished for him.

He'd been going to say "not like Cassandra loves me," but what Sara had said was also true, and he slowly nodded.

Sara added, "Not like you loved Brenda? Not like you loved Heather?"

"Yeah."

Sara smiled a little, nodding to herself, then gave his arm a gentle pat. "I really don't think Cassandra expects you to treat her like a wife, Dad. Or love her like one, either."

"I don't—"

"It'll be all right," Sara said then kissed him on the cheek, swung up into her saddle, clicked to her horse, and rode away.

Connor stood there, holding the reins in one hand, until the horse nudged him in the shoulder with a nose. Connor mounted, took one more look at the beauty of the dark branches of the oak tree above the silvered grasses with the towering mountains behind, then set the horse on the way home.

* * *

><p>Cassandra returned to the Phinyx Mother House on New Year's Day, arriving around noon. On her way to her suite, suitcase in hand, she heard Sara and Alea in the small kitchen near the lounge. "Happy New Year, Sister Laina!" Alea called.<p>

"Happy New Year, Alea," Cassandra greeted her, coming into the kitchen, then turned to Sara. "Happy New Year, Sister Caorran."

"Happy New Year, Sister Laina," Sara responded.

"We've been saving our ration coupons this month, and we're making a birthday pie for Cousin Mike," Alea explained, cracking an egg.

"It's Aunt Rachel's recipe," Sara said, blowing air upward to try to get her bangs off her forehead. Her hands were covered in flour, and she had a white smudge on her nose.

"Caramel cream," Alea said as she carefully separated the egg then poured the white into a glass bowl. The yolk joined three others in a large measuring cup. "Mom said Great-Aunt Rachel used to make it for Cousin Mike every year."

Probably after Connor had taught her how. Cassandra smiled and said, "I'm sure he'll love it." Sara had stepped back to stare at the waiting circle of pie dough, a rolling pin at the ready in her hand, and Cassandra observed, "You look like you're planning an assault."

Sara looked up with a rueful grin. "I haven't made a pie in a while."

"The crust will all be hidden, Mom," Alea pointed out. "Who cares what it looks like?"

"Right," Sara agreed with a deep breath, then brandished the rolling pin. "Here we go." She sprinkled flour on the dough and set to work.

Alea whisked the yolks then began the tedious task of stirring the milk over low heat until it thickened. "Hey, Mom, isn't it funny that Cousin Mike has the same birthday as your dad did?"

"Lots of people have the same birthday," Sara said evenly. "We have seven billion people on the planet, and there are only three-hundred sixty-five days to choose from. Three-hundred-sixty-six in a leap year." She paused in rolling out the dough, then said, "More than nineteen million people share the same birthday. About three hundred fifty thousand share the same birth day and birth year."

"Oh," Alea said. "I hadn't done the math." Sara shook her head in exasperation, and Alea quickly switched topics. "How was your trip to Vienna, Sister Laina?"

"Wonderful!" Cassandra answered, setting down her suitcase. "First, we went to some museums, then my friend Amanda took me to her hairdresser—"

"You didn't cut your hair, did you?" Alea asked, looking stricken, her spoon stopping in mid-stir.

"What's under the hat?" Sara demanded. "Let us see!"

Cassandra stood and, with a theatrical sweep of her arm, removed her angora hat to reveal the results of four hours with Domenico.

"Oh, great Goddess above!" Alea breathed. "That's gorgeous!"

"Wow," Sara said. "That's… red."

"It's bright henna, to take me from brown-auburn to red-auburn," Cassandra said. "Amanda went for a color called Copper Top, like a new penny." Sara tilted her head, considering, and Cassandra executed a model's slow twirl.

"It's beautiful," Sara said. "You look great."

"Thank you," Cassandra said. "I was ready for a change."

"I'm so glad you didn't cut it," Alea said, back to stirring the milk again. "What else did you and your friend do?"

"After we had our hair done," Cassandra said as she took off her coat, "we had to go shopping for clothes."

"Of course you did," Sara agreed, now intent on maneuvering the rolled out pie crust into the pan.

"What did you buy?" asked Alea.

"A green dress with a halter top, and a black off-the-shoulder dress with a slit up to the thigh."

"Which one are you wearing to the Twelfth Night Ball?" Alea immediately wanted to know.

"Probably the green one. I wore the black dress when Amanda and I went dancing last night." Cassandra tried to stifle a yawn. "We were out until dawn, and I slept on the train ride here." Cassandra sat down on the chair in the corner. "How was your New Year's Eve?"

Sara laughed. "I played card games with other teachers in the lounge and was in bed before eleven." She unfolded the pie crust, patched a small hole, then looked at it with satisfaction before starting to crimp the edges.

"I was up until three," Alea said. "Monique and Britte and I were talking and trying on clothes and doing our hair. Mom woke me up around ten this morning, and we had breakfast then started on this pie. Mom, I think the milk is almost done."

Cassandra began washing the dishes while Sara and Alea finished the pie. "Thank you, Laina," Sara said, when the pie finally went into the oven. She shook her head at the pile of dishes on the counter. "I can't believe one pie takes so many bowls. No wonder Aunt Rachel only made it once a year."

"We're going to give Cousin Mike the pie in the refectory after dinner," Alea explained then asked in sudden concern, "Unless, Sister Laina, you and Cousin Mike have something special planned?"

"Alea," warned Sara.

"We need to know where he's eating," Alea pointed out. "Otherwise, we'll have to take the pie to his room. Unless… he won't be there, either?" She looked at Cassandra again, now more curious than concerned.

"No plans," Cassandra said, smiling but with enough firmness to silence the inquisitive teen.

Alea glanced at her mother, looked back to Cassandra, then said, "Right. Um… You can take the pie out of the oven, right, Mom? I'm supposed to meet Monique in her room at two."

"Yes," Sara said. "Off you go. See you tonight!"

Alea went down the hall, and Sara and Cassandra sat at the small kitchen table, waiting for the meringue topping on the pie to brown. "Do you love my dad, Cassandra?" Sara asked straight away.

As always, Sara was an impudent chit. Cassandra was glad that hadn't changed. "Funny, Amanda asked me the exact same question," Cassandra said.

"So, do you?" Sara persisted.

"Yes," Cassandra replied but went on to say, "By that, I mean his happiness is important to me. And so is yours, and so is Alea's. I love you all."

Sara was nodding impatiently. "I get that. But people love each other in different ways. After all, you haven't asked me or Alea to be your lover."

"You got him to tell you that?" Cassandra asked, amused.

"It took a while," Sara admitted with a conspiratorial grin.

"Did you also get him to tell you that he told me no?"

"Oh, I had figured that out already," Sara said. "As soon as he told me you'd left with Amanda, I knew. I just didn't know why. So I badgered him until he said it was because you loved him and he didn't love you."

Cassandra had heard this from Connor already, and she didn't care to hear it again. "Caorran—"

"So I told him he was wrong," Sara continued on, "and that he did, which he does. Love you, I mean. Alea would have told him the same thing if she'd been there. When we were in Bruges, she told Daniel that 'Mike' wasn't at all interested in me because he obviously wanted you."

"Except he doesn't," Cassandra said, a bit more tartly than she had intended.

"Of course he does," Sara contradicted. "He's just being stubborn about it. And he likes being in charge, so when you asked first, he wasn't ready."

Cassandra smiled ruefully, for Amanda had said almost precisely the same thing.

* * *

><p><em><strong>a few days before...<strong>_

"Men like to think they're doing the hunting," Amanda said in the hotel room while she and Cassandra were painting their nails, "so even if you're the one to hand them the bow and arrow, lead them down the path, point out what they're aiming at, and tell them 'Now!' they still need to be the one to pull the string back and let fly."

Cassandra knew that. She'd just gotten impatient. "I did wait for him to ask me what I wanted."

"Yes, but then you asked him for more than he was ready to give," Amanda pointed out.

Cassandra knew that, too. She sighed then wiped all the polish off her thumb. Cassandra reached for the bottle labeled Dutch Tulips. It would go better with her new hair.

"Since it's the combination of sex and emotions that's a problem for Connor, did you think about seducing him and just going for the sex?" Amanda asked, painting her little finger with the color Golden Gala.

"Frequently," Cassandra answered, allowing the decades of waiting and frustration to show.

Amanda answered with a saucy and understanding grin, then blew gently on the back of her nails and said, "So why didn't you?"

"Because I want him to seduce me."

Amanda paused, her eyes slightly glazed. "Yes," she murmured. "That is better." Then her gaze, intent and avidly curious, focused on Cassandra. "What's Connor like? In bed?"

With a smile, Cassandra said simply, "Worth the wait."

"Really?" Amanda's eyes glazed over again as she murmured, "Hmm..." Then she said cheerfully, "It'll happen. Just stick to the plan. You left with a girlfriend to have fun instead of moping around the castle, so he knows you weren't utterly devastated just because he said no. You showed him you have a life of your own. You'll return looking gorgeous, and you'll be…?" she prompted.

"Friendly but not clingy," Cassandra finished. "Even a little cool."

"Right," Amanda said. "Let him come after you. And don't use the L word. Men are shy about love."

Especially, Cassandra reflected as she began painting her thumbnail, Connor MacLeod.

* * *

><p>It didn't take centuries of experience to figure that out, either. Connor's daughter knew it, too. "My dad's… careful," Sara said, standing and reaching for the pot holders. "About love." She opened the oven and took out the pie, the white meringue baked to a beautiful golden-brown, and set it on top of the stove to cool. She sat back down at the table and said, "He thinks love means marriage. For him, it always has. Or at least, he wanted it to."<p>

"I know," Cassandra said. She'd realized that soon after he'd turned her down, and Amanda had spotted it straight away. Connor wasn't thinking like an immortal. He'd loved only mortal women, and mortal women expected marriage, and marriage meant a monogamous lifetime commitment. He'd spent fifty years with Heather and more than thirty with Alex. In contrast, Connor's time with immortal women had been brief, infrequent, and far from home.

Yet Cassandra and he were working at the same school, they saw each other every day, they even lived in the same building. This wasn't a vacation; this was their daily life. Becoming lovers here and now could feel as if they were moving in together, setting up a home. And unlike the few decades of a mortal's lifespan, immortal relationships could last for hundreds of years.

No wonder he'd backed away.

"I don't want Connor as a husband, I don't want to be a wife, and what I proposed wasn't marriage," Cassandra said, a bit exasperated both with herself and with him. She'd been waiting for years for the timing to be right, and then she'd forgotten how inexperienced Connor was in this area, for all his five and a quarter centuries. Most immortals figured it out sooner. Duncan certainly had. Amanda had been his first immortal lover, and she'd taught him well.

Whereas Connor's first immortal lover, Cassandra realized with sudden bleak anguish, had been herself. Instead of teaching him well, she had destroyed his trust, shredded his heart, and left him bleeding. Beside Rebecca, and that one night with Evann, had he had any other immortal lovers at all? Or had she ruined that for him, too, with her lies? "Stupid," she muttered to herself. She'd been incredibly stupid and selfish and cruel.

"He's not stupid," Sara said, misunderstanding. "Just a little slow to come around." She smiled with great satisfaction as she leaned across the table and patted Cassandra gently on the forearm. "But now he knows it's not like a marriage. Don't worry. He'll be calling you soon."

Cassandra nodded, but she couldn't smile in return.

Connor had sent Cassandra a message early in the morning on New Year's Day, so that it would be waiting for her when she returned, whenever that was. It said simply, "I'd like to talk." Then he went running in the hills, worked out, showered and shaved. During lunch, one of the staff mentioned that Sister Laina had just returned. She didn't reply to his message until three, and it said simply: "I'll be in my office at four."

Not exactly an invitation, but at least she hadn't told him to go pound sand. Connor went through the music room and knocked at her office door at 3:59. He stopped short at the doorway. "You dyed your hair."

"Yes," she agreed, looking up from the pile of papers on her desk. Her hair was unbound, spilling over her back, along her arms, and nearly touching the floor. The sunlight from one window backlit individual strands and turned to them to red-gold, but in the shadows, the color was dark flame. It stood out well against her cream-colored angora sweater and long skirt of light brown wool. Tendrils curled around her, clinging to the bare skin of her forearms and hands.

He came into the room, looked at her from several angles, and said, "Looks nice."

"Thank you," she said, with a brief smile. "Oh, and happy birthday."

His answering words and smile were just as friendly, cheerful— and bland—as hers. "Thank you."

"So," she began, "what would you like to talk about?"

That was a stupid question. Or a defensive one. Or possibly offensive. But Connor wasn't here to play games. "I may have… been hasty," he admitted. "Earlier." She lifted an eyebrow in silent invitation, and he went on, "Do you really think this could work between us?"

Cassandra smiled to herself and murmured, "And to think we called you chivalrous."

"Who?" he demanded.

"Oh, Amanda. Alex. Sara. Rachel."

Stubborn women, all of them, and that included Cassandra. And talkative, too, of course. No power on earth could stop women from talking, and he'd resigned himself to that centuries ago. At least they weren't calling him an idiot.

Connor pulled a chair away from the wall and set it next to the side of the desk then sat down, leaning forward a bit, his elbows on his knees. "Do you?" he asked again.

She tilted her head to one side, considering him. "That rather depends on how much work we put into it."

"How much work is it likely to be?" he countered.

"I think," she said carefully, "you and I have already done a lot of the work." Her smile this time was quick, seemingly shy, but with a touch of wistfulness and even flirtation tossed in. "I was hoping we were ready for fun."

That would make a welcome change. But first, they had a few things to figure out. "Before, in the Highlands," Connor began, "we both knew it was temporary. Our visits after that were…"

"Vacations?" Cassandra supplied.

He nodded then said bluntly: "How does living together work for immortals?"

"From what I've seen, it works best by having times to live apart," she answered. "Ramirez was my only long-term partner. He and I lived together for nearly a century, all told. The longest stretch was about fifteen years. In between, he or I would travel, sometimes for a few years, sometimes for decades, then come back. While we were together, we often shared our evening meal, but not usually in the morning or midday. Except at the cottage in the Highlands, which was too small, we had separate bedrooms. He would visit me, often spend the night."

"You didn't visit him?"

"Ramirez frequently brought other women to his bed. I didn't care to be one of the crowd."

"And you didn't mind?" Connor asked in disbelief. "About the other women?"

"Ramirez liked women," she said simply. "All women. It was part of who he was. I never expected his sexual fidelity, even when we were married." She shrugged. "The bedpartners meant little to him. They came; they went, and he always came back to me. If Ramirez had begun to care for someone, I would have left for a century or so, to give them time together, the way I left when he took immortal students. But he never loved the mortal women he took to his bed."

"He loved his wife," Connor said. The words came out rough, ragged.

"Yes," Cassandra agreed immediately, her gaze softening. "He loved all his wives: Nipik, En-thalat, Shakiko. I first met him forty years after Shakiko had died. After her death—"

"He was shattered," Connor finished. Ramirez had told Connor that story, trying to warn him, to prepare him for Heather's inevitable death. It hadn't helped.

"Ramirez put the pieces back together," Cassandra said. "But he left out his heart."

"No," Connor corrected. "I think he loved you."

Tears sprang to Cassandra' eyes, even as she smiled in fond remembrance. "Perhaps. I hope so," she said. "For I loved him." She wiped away the tears. "This winter will be five hundred years, since he's been gone. I still miss him."

"So do I," Connor said. "He was a good man."

"Yes," Cassandra agreed, and they both sat in silence, remembering their old friend. Then Cassandra went to the cabinet against the wall, her hair a swirling cloud of flame about her, and came back with a bottle of Talisker and two glasses. Connor stood and poured the whisky, and they lifted their glasses in a toast.

"To Ramirez," Connor said. "A great teacher, and a better friend."

"To Tak-Ne," she replied, using Ramirez's Egyptian birth name. "A good husband, and a marvelous man."

They drank together, and Connor closed his eyes to savor the flavor, like smoke floating through liquid sunshine, followed by a surprising sweetness at the finish with a hint of cloves. Cassandra poured another drink and they sat back down. Her chair wasn't all the way behind the desk now; she'd turned it to face his, and she was waiting for him to talk.

Connor cradled the glass in his hands, thoughtfully regarding the amber liquid. Then he looked up to meet her steady gaze. "You said Ramirez had other women in his bed. Did you have other men?" Then, remembering Cassandra's girlfriend from a few decades before, he added, "Or women?"

"No. Never while we were living together. I prefer one partner at a time."

"So do I," Connor said firmly. He'd made that decision about four hundred years ago. Back in the early 1600s, he'd been living with Anne and he'd gone to Cassandra for a visit, thinking he could keep his mortal and immortal lives separate. The visit had gone well, and he'd enjoyed seeing Cassandra, but when he'd gone back to Anne he'd felt… wrong. Hiding his immortality from Anne had been awkward but necessary; hiding another lover from her had been a lie. He'd decided not to try that again.

Cassandra's lips twitched in the beginnings of a smile. "So, if you and I were to have a relationship, then we would expect sexual fidelity from each other while we were living together. Correct?"

"Correct," he agreed. "If we were to have a relationship. And while we weren't living together, there would be no expectations. Right?"

"Right. No questions, no expectations. We would each be free. We could date, flirt, fall in love, even marry."

The way Rebecca had with her husband John in 1979. Connor nodded.

"If you did meet someone while we were together," Cassandra said, "I would want you to tell me, and then I would leave." He started to shake his head, and Cassandra repeated firmly, "I would leave. Love is rare and precious, Connor. I will not stand in its way."

He sipped at his whisky, remembering past loves and how suddenly they could appear, even when you weren't looking for them. And disappear. "And I suppose I should do the same for you."

"That seems fair," she said, and she was right; it was. "Have you…," she began. "Were there…"

Connor looked at her in surprise, for he hadn't heard her be this hesitant in years. "What?"

"I am sorry," she said, meeting his gaze with earnest, pleading eyes, "that what I did to you made your life even lonelier than usual for an immortal."

They'd been over this before. "I've had families," he reminded her patiently.

"Yes, and I'm glad. I meant relationships with immortals."

Connor lifted an eyebrow. "There've been a few."

"Have there?" she said then smiled in what he could have sworn was delight. "Oh good."

He gave a bark of surprised laughter. Women weren't usually that pleased to hear of other lovers. But as long as they were sharing information, and since she didn't mind… "Four," he told her. "Not including you." She nodded, but didn't ask for names. "How about you?" he asked.

"The same," she answered. "Four, not including you."

Ramirez and Duncan, obviously. Connor wondered briefly who the other two had been, and how long ago, but decided not to pursue it. He didn't want to talk about his past in detail; he couldn't ask her more about hers. "So, what if one of us does meet another immortal during a 'relationship'?" he asked next.

Cassandra drew in a deep breath. "That could work," she said. "With… discussion and agreement."

"How?" Connor asked. "We take turns?"

"Why not?" she asked, as if were a matter of waiting to go for a ride on a Ferris wheel. "We have the time."

Connor shook his head and finished the rest of his whisky. Cassandra's was only half gone. "It's… different," he said finally.

"So," Cassandra replied, "are we."

* * *

><p><em><strong>Next: Connor and Cassandra go a-courting<strong>_


	10. Promises

**PROMISES**

* * *

><p><em><strong>Akademie der Sankte Hildegard, Thursday 1 January 2043<strong>_

* * *

><p>Cassandra decided not to eat dinner in the refectory that night. She was not in the mood to feign polite contentedness while both students and teachers surreptitiously glanced between her and Sensei Mike, clearly wondering how their romance was going.<p>

Cassandra was wondering, too. Before Connor left her office, she gave him his birthday present, wrapped Japanese-style in a colorful cloth. He untied it carefully and then unfolded the gift: a sheath for his karate bo. She'd woven it in cotton-ramie with black warp and weft, so that the pattern was subtle shadings, not immediately seen. The carrying strap was in the kumihimo style, woven in blue and green with accents of red, colors of the MacLeod tartan.

Connor admired the weaving and thanked her warmly, complimented her hair again, and said he'd appreciated the chance to talk. Then he said that he needed some time to think and walked out. Cassandra stood there for a moment, then went to the gym and pedaled a generator bike for sixty-five minutes, producing nearly half a kilowatt-hour. Then she went straight to her room to get clean.

In the bathing room, she stripped and washed then began to work on her hair. She shampooed her scalp, letting the suds flow down her hair, then held the wet rope of it under cool running water to rinse. The water around her feet was dark with excess dye, and the dark earthy scent of henna overcame the crisp lavender of her soap. When the water running down was mostly clear, she squeezed out the extra water from her hair and stepped from the tub.

Still, Cassandra reflected as she briskly rubbed herself dry then gently patted her hair with a towel, Connor's message earlier that day had said he'd "like" to talk. From him, that counted as an apology. He had complimented her hair twice, which meant he definitely liked it, though he hadn't said anything about her new clothes. But he had started to think, so there was hope after all.

And that was the problem, wasn't it? Right before Christmas, when she and Connor had been getting along so well and it seemed as if the long, lonely centuries of waiting were finally over, Cassandra had allowed herself to hope.

Then Connor had said no.

Hope tasted bitter when you had to swallow it back down. So much so that now, when the "no" had turned into a "maybe," she was afraid to hope again. It wasn't at all difficult to follow Amanda's advice and play at being "cool." In fact, it was hard to avoid being cold.

And that, Cassandra knew, would cripple a friendship, destroying the very thing she and Connor had both said they treasured and wanted to keep. If he said no again, Cassandra decided, she would leave, perhaps to spend a term at the boys' school in Scotland or maybe travel to India for a year, until she could accept his rejection with better grace. Then they could be friends again, and she would start looking for a different partner, however long that might take. Yes, that was reasonable. It was civilized and understanding and mature.

It wasn't what she wanted at all.

Cassandra knew very well that wants often went unfilled. She also knew that standing around and feeling sorry for herself was no help at all. She dressed in warm sleeping clothes, white silk leggings and shirt underneath a cashmere pajama set of navy blue. She topped that with a cotton yu_kata_ robe, with a pattern of white lilies on light blue, leaving it untied. She pulled on alpaca socks then laid a dry towel across her shoulders like a cape, clipped it together in the front, and spread out her hair on the towel to dry.

She went to her loom in the corner and started to weave. It was an eight-shaft overshot pattern, and the steady rhythm of counting, pressing the foot pedals in the proper order, and switching shuttles with every pass was soothing yet complicated enough to keep her mind busy. She had woven almost a double handspan when she realized she'd skipped a row in the pattern, and the last fifteen or so wefts would need to be undone. So she started unweaving, pulling out thread after thread and rewinding the bobbins, just like Penelope at her loom, waiting twenty years for Odysseus to come home.

Only after Cassandra felt the warm drops on the back of her hands did she realize she was crying. She set down her shuttles, released the tension on the warp, and walked away from the loom. She ended up standing in front of the narrow window, her arms tightly crossed over her body and more tears running down her face as she stared into the darkness of the night outside. "Honestly," she muttered and wiped away the tears on her sleeve then almost immediately had to wipe away more.

Tears, her friend Alex had told her long ago, are healthy. They carry away the chemicals of stress. It had been a stressful week and a very long day. And a very long four hundred years. Cassandra gave up, went to her bed in the alcove and pulled the curtains shut, curled herself around a pillow, and cried.

When she was finished, she felt better. However, her eyes were red and her nose was stuffy and her cheeks were stiff with dried tears. She washed her face and rearranged her hair then made herself a cup of tea and settled down with her reader in a comfortable chair.

She was nearly done with the Phinyx newsletters about the new boys' schools when she felt the approach an immortal. Connor's room was on the other side of the courtyard, and he'd never been to her room before. She'd never been to his, either. They'd both been keeping their distance.

But a quick check of the security monitor in her reader showed Connor coming down the hall. She waited for his knock before she stood and went to the door. She opened it to see Connor, a small container in one hand, his hair tousled enough that it stood straight up in some places. The Venturi effect between the buildings led to strong winds, which was good for their wind turbines but bad for hair.

As usual, his gaze flicked over her, the practiced and automatic evaluation of another immortal, and Cassandra resisted the urge to cross her arms or tighten the belt of her pajama top. When he came back to her face, his eyes held a quizzical look. "You missed dinner," he said, that bald statement saved from being an accusation by the hint of a smile. "I brought you a piece of birthday pie." He lifted the lid of the container so she could see.

Two students, perhaps fourteen years old and wearing blue and bronze scarves, appeared from the stairwell, eagerly taking in the tableau of Sensei Mike standing outside Sister Laina's door. "Happy Birthday, Sensei Mike," they chorused as they approached.

"Thank you, Salet and Zia," Connor said gravely. "Happy New Year."

"Happy New Year," they replied then dissolved into muffled giggles, looking over their shoulders as they went down the hall.

Connor seemed unperturbed. He lifted an eyebrow at Cassandra, and she made herself smile, then stepped back and opened the door. "How was the party?" she asked as he came in.

"No party," he said. "I told Sara not to make a big deal. Alea brought out the pie for our desert, then Sara gave me a bottle of whisky: a twenty-five-year Macallan. About twenty people sang Happy Birthday."

"Any Macallan left?" Cassandra asked, for she could smell the whisky on him.

"About half," he said with a touch of regret. "There was a lot of toasting of the new year." His gaze turned quizzical again. "People asked where you were."

"Recuperating from my trip with Amanda," she said. "We did a lot of toasting too."

"I'm sure." He set the pie down on the small table between the chairs.

"Tea?" Cassandra offered. At his nod she went to the bathing room for water. When she came out, Connor was looking at the loom, examining the joins in the wood and mechanisms of the harnesses and treadles. Cassandra put the heating element in the water and set it to boil. She rinsed her cup, for her tea had long since grown cold, took another cup from the top of the bookshelves, rinsed that one too, then measured the tea leaves. While the water was heating, she finger-combed her hair, spreading out the damp patch that always lingered at the nape of the neck.

Eventually, just as the water boiled, Connor looked at the cloth. "What's this pattern called?"

"Blooming Leaf," Cassandra replied as she poured the water over the tea, though the colors she'd chosen for that cloth—dark blue and gold—made the pattern look more like stars than foliage.

"There's a row missing," he observed.

Cassandra set the lid on the teapot, neatly and quietly, with careful control. "I know."

Connor gave her a swift look then came over and carried the cups to the table, setting them on either side of the pie. Cassandra followed with the teapot, and they sat in the chairs and waited for the tea to brew.

Connor looked around her room, his gaze halting at the intricate mobile made of wire, shells, and feathers that hung above the door. "Is that one of Will's?" he asked, and when Cassandra nodded, Connor asked, "What's he call those? Shandles?"

"Shambles," Cassandra said. She had high hopes for Will; his talent was manifesting early. Alea hadn't shown any, but then psychic ability sometimes skipped a generation. If Alea had children, they might inherit. And there was the Edgerton family, Sara's three half-siblings and their three children and some cousins. Twenty-five other psychics had also been found. Enough to get started.

"Sara said you helped with the pie," Connor said next.

"I washed the dishes," Cassandra clarified, then softened her reply with a smile and added, "Your daughter and your granddaughter made the pie."

His eyebrows lifted as he nodded. Then he said, "They did a good job. Tastes just like the ones Mrs. Steinhoff, Rachel's German teacher, used to make. She gave Rachel the recipe in '53 or so."

Cassandra tried to match his rare sociability. "I assumed you had taught Rachel."

He smiled fondly, his eyes crinkling around the edges. "She taught me." Then he drifted away into memories, his gaze unfocused and his face looking very young.

Cassandra waited in silence for him to return. When he blinked and focused again, she said, "Rachel was a wonderful woman," then poured out the tea. She picked up the container and with a fork cut off a triangle from the piece of pie. She closed her eyes the better to taste, and was rewarded with a melting of meringue on the roof of her mouth and the quiver of cream, soft and heavy on her tongue. A moment more and she could taste the brown richness of caramel and butter, and a delicate crispness from the crust. She swallowed, and the sweetness lingered, leaving her wanting more.

She opened her eyes to find Connor watching her, his tea cup motionless in one hand. "They did do a good job,' Cassandra agreed with a merry smile, determined to be cheerful and friendly. She picked up her tea cup and took a sip, appreciating its astringent heat after the sweetness of pie. When she set her cup down, Connor did the same with his. His gaze was still on her, serious and searching beneath dark brows.

"You are so beautiful when you smile," Connor said.

And at that, Cassandra started to cry. The tears simply welled up, uncontrollable, as they had earlier that evening, and she turned her face away.

Connor was immediately at her side, half kneeling on the floor. "Hey," he said in soft concern, and he put one hand atop her two, which were clenched tightly in her lap. "Should I have brought you oranges instead?" he asked.

Underneath his try for humor, Cassandra recognized an apology, for oranges were their traditional peace offering to each other, along with fresh-baked bread. "What do you want from me, Connor?" she asked looking directly at him, for he had never answered, and she really needed to know.

He nodded slowly, then took both her hands between his. "I want us to be friends," he said, and Cassandra once again tasted the bitterness of unanswered hope. "I treasure that."

"So do I," she said, already planning when and how to leave.

Then Connor added, "And I want us to be lovers," and suddenly Cassandra didn't mind her tears, and hope was sweet again. Her hands opened, reaching for his, and he returned her grip firmly. His hands were warm and strong, and Cassandra held on. He got to his feet and she went with him, so that they stood, facing each other and holding hands. Thus they had stood when promising to be student and teacher. Thus they had stood when promising to be friends.

"I want to watch sunrises with you," he said to her. "I want you to laugh with me when I'm happy, and listen to me when I'm down." He smiled wryly as he added, "And I'd like you to help me with my daughter."

Cassandra blinked through her tears and smiled, too, for Sara was a handful, and that hadn't changed over the years.

He leaned forward, just a little, his head bending toward hers."I want us to sing together," Connor said, his thumb slowly caressing her own. His gaze strayed to her hair, following its unruly waves down to her knees. "I want you to let me comb your hair," he urged softly, "and then for you to let me feel the touch of it against my skin."

She swallowed, remembering the time she had stood before him, clothed only in her hair, as he sat on the edge of the bed and patiently combed out all the tangles. Then she had taken his clothes off, being careful not to touch him. He had sat down again, and when she had turned to face him, he had wound her hair about his hands then slowly pulled her down to him for a kiss. Her hair had fallen around them, strands soft upon shoulder and arm and thigh, and then he'd pulled her closer still.

He'd combed her hair again for her after they were done.

"I want to make love to you Cassandra," Connor said softly, touching his forehead to hers, and Cassandra closed her eyes, the better to hear. His next words were softer still, and she felt the whisper of his breath against her mouth as he murmured, "And I would love for you to make love to me."

It was exactly what she had said to him, and it was exactly what she'd been hoping to hear. Cassandra stepped back, far enough to look into his eyes, yet keeping hold of his hands. "Then shall we be lovers?" she asked him, needing this pledge between them. "From time to time?"

"Lovers," he agreed, with a smile that made him beautiful. "From time to time." He lifted her hands to kiss the back of each one, yet never looked away. The heat from his touch of his lips lingered on her skin.

"And friends," she said, needing this too.

"Always," he affirmed, gathering her hands against his chest.

Underneath the soft wool of his sweater, she could feel the rise and fall of his breathing and the steady beat of his heart. His gaze was steady, too: straightforward, honest, and intent upon her. A trembling of desire flashed like fire along her veins, and her unbidden smile was one of utter joy as she agreed to be friends—and sometimes lovers—with the man she loved: "Always."

* * *

><p>Connor spent the night of his birthday alone, which was not at all what he had planned.. He had thought, when he'd gone to Cassandra's room after dinner, that they would "ring in the new year" together. He had hoped—fantasized—that she might have a special "birthday present" for him, and he had given some thought as to what he might do for her the next morning, when they woke up in the same bed.<p>

But right after they agreed to be lovers, when the timing was perfect for a passionate kiss and falling into each other arms, Cassandra sat back down in her chair. She was still smiling up at him and still holding his hand, but Connor recognized the "touch me not" signs of a woman who wanted to talk. He also knew, from decades of married life, that a short time spent listening often resulted in happy bouts of torrid sex, while ignoring those signs meant no sex at all. So Connor sat down, too.

"You are very important to me," Cassandra began, her fingers twined between his, but loosely, just holding hands. Her smile was still brilliant, but a touch of wistfulness had replaced the joy. "So I want this to be right between us."

Connor nodded, for he knew just how horribly wrong it could be.

"I'm not ready for us to go to bed together, not yet," Cassandra said next.

Well, he'd asked for her honesty. And he appreciated not having to guess. Connor knew he couldn't push, even a little; Cassandra had been forced into sex too many times. He had to wait for her to come to him. "OK."

"I'm tired tonight," she began explaining, "and these last two weeks my emotions have been whipsawed back and forth too many times."

Connor hadn't meant to mislead her during those days between solstice and Christmas, nor had he wanted to hurt her by saying no. But he hadn't been ready then. Just as she wasn't ready now. "Cassandra," he said, giving her hand a light squeeze, "it's OK. We'll wait."

At that simple statement, her eyes filled with tears once again. "Thank you," she said, returning the pressure. "I just… need a little time."

That was something both of them had plenty of. Besides, dating could be fun, and Connor had always enjoyed the chase. He knelt in front of her once again, taking her hands in his, like a chivalrous knight of old. "Shall I court you, Cassandra?" he asked.

And once again, Cassandra smiled through tears and said, "Yes."

* * *

><p>He brought her breakfast the next morning, orange slices arranged like a flower on a blue porcelain plate and a loaf of fresh-baked bread. She served him tea. That evening they watched the sunset together, and Connor asked her to go with him to the Twelfth Night Ball. She said yes.<p>

On the afternoon after that, he invited her to go riding, and in the meadow of silver grasses, near the spreading oak tree, they walked hand in hand while the horses grazed nearby. "Look," Cassandra said, pointing skyward. "The eagle."

Off to the east, with outstretched wings dark against the blue sky, soared the great bird.

"She's beautiful," Cassandra commented.

Connor had good eyesight, but not that good. "How do you know it's female?"

"I can feel her," Cassandra said. "Her essence."

Connor stared at the bird, trying to connect, but felt nothing. Linking with other creatures was one of the gifts of immortality, but he hadn't done it in years. He hadn't tried scrying, either, and he decided immediately to practice more. As he shook his head in frustration, Cassandra pulled off her glove with her teeth and offered him her bare hand. Connor quickly removed his own glove and clasped hands. He matched his breathing to hers, both watching the bird circle high above, and then suddenly he could sense the great raptor, her hot thin thread of hunger, her savage focus on the hunt. For far below him—- below the bird—a rabbit crept through frozen grass.

Then he was diving, an ever tightening spiral bringing him swiftly down, with his prey at the center of his vision and the cold air beating against his wings. He moved with the wind, shaped it to his purpose with a tilt of a wing and a flaring of the tail, and then he was gliding across the field, talons extended, the furred one running just in front, until he dropped lower, striking it hard and crushing it until it was still. Blood spurted hot and sweet on his tongue, and the gobbets of meat and fur were swallowed whole. Hunger faded, and sun shone warm on his feathers.

Dimly, Connor felt Cassandra pull her hand away, and he blinked and came back to himself, standing next to her near an oak tree while horses grazed nearby. At the far end of the meadow, almost too far to be seen, a golden eagle ate a rabbit.

Connor licked his lips, still tasting blood, then methodically uncurled his fingers from the death grip. Cassandra was doing the same. "I've never connected with a bird before," he said.

"They're not as easy as mammals," she said. "But the great ones are reachable, especially when they're hunting." She looked at him sidelong and added, "Or in a mating flight."

Connor lifted an eyebrow, remembering an autumn week spent with Cassandra at a Scottish inn during the rutting season of the deer. "Ah."

"Ah, indeed," Cassandra agreed. He and Cassandra took each other hands again, still bare skin to bare skin, and began strolling. Eventually, the eagle lifted off from the corner of the field, the half-eaten rabbit dangling below. "Back to her nest," Cassandra said. "Her mate is waiting."

"Ever connected with a person?" Connor asked.

"Never that clearly," she said. "I could get vague impressions from Ramirez and from one of my students, but I think words get in the way. And many immortals don't have the gift at all. Duncan doesn't, does he?"

"No." It has been a sadness to Connor, not to share that with his kinsman. Perhaps, later, he and Cassandra could share it again. Perhaps they might even connect with each other.

Apparently Cassandra was thinking about connection, too, for she suddenly announced, "I don't want secrets in our bed, Connor."

"Good," he replied, knowing that these ancient shards of pain needed burying once and for all. "Neither do I."

"I'd like your encouragement with that," she said. "I'm not in the habit of sharing."

"Me, either," Connor said, trying to soften that habit right now.

"None of us are," she agreed. "But I've always kept secrets, even from my husbands. I did tell them I was immortal, but I hid other things. I never told anyone—not even Ramirez—about the Horsemen. Or about Roland or the Prophecy. Or the Voice."

"You told me," Connor reminded her.

"Yes, but that was later. After." She bit her lip and looked away before admitting, "Except for Methos, I've lied to every single man I've ever been to bed with." She stopped walking and faced him straight on. "Including you."

"I know," he said evenly. "But that was before." His eyes narrowed in warning. "Right?"

"Right," she agreed instantly then said nothing more.

Clearly, she was asking for his encouragement. "So what do you need to tell me before we go to bed?" he asked bluntly.

She smiled wryly. "Thank you."

"Any time."

"You know I have 'baggage'," she began.

"Yeah," he agreed then immediately realized he shouldn't have agreed quite so wholeheartedly, so he added, "I think I remember you mentioning some things. Once or twice, maybe."

"Once or twice," she agreed, and the humor of that colossal understatement was not lost on either of them. "That baggage, a whole trainload of it, is the main reason why I need some time. I need to get… comfortable."

He lifted an eyebrow, waiting for her to explain.

"Comfortable with sex," she said then breathed out slowly before confiding, "I haven't been with a man since the Horsemen."

"The Horsemen?" he repeated in surprise. Connor certainly understood her need to get "comfortable" after enduring gang rape, but the Horsemen had been nearly half a century ago. Cassandra had had a string of boyfriends since then. "I thought…," Connor began. "Not with Liam? Or Mark? Or that guy in America you used to talk about with Alex for hours?"

"His name was Miguel," she informed him. "I did go out with a lot of men; I never stayed in."

Connor knew one who had stayed in with her. "Duncan lived in your house for four months, Cassandra."

"So did you, when you were my student."

"I didn't sleep in your bed," Connor pointed out.

"Yes, Duncan and I shared a bed," she admitted, "but all we did was sleep."

Connor ran his hand through his hair then paced back and forth before swinging around to face her. "This is Duncan we're talking about, right?"

"He wasn't himself then, as you know," Cassandra replied. "He was still grieving for Richie."

If true, then Duncan had been hell of a lot more disturbed than Connor had ever realized. But why wouldn't it be true? Cassandra had promised not to lie anymore. And this was an easy thing to check on; all Connor had to do was ask Duncan.

But Connor wouldn't ask. Either he trusted Cassandra or he didn't, and if he didn't, they shouldn't be friends, let alone lovers. "I didn't mean to doubt you, Cassandra," Connor said, taking her hand and starting to walk again. Frozen grasses crunched underfoot. "But…"

Cassandra actually smiled. "It is hard to believe, I know," she said, "Duncan is not usually so restrained."

Connor took four more steps before coming to a halt. "You never sang to him."

"Connor," she said, reaching up to him, laying her palm gently against his cheek in an intimate caress. He could feel the touch of her fingertips just above his beard. In the winter sunshine, the green of her eyes glinted gold, and her hair gleamed like red fire. "In my life, I have sung to five men: Talis, Mah-ten, Gavon, Ramirez, and you."

Connor recognized those names. He put his hand over hers, pressing it closer, and then she turned her palm to his, and once again they stood facing each other, holding hands. "Your four husbands," he said. "And me."

"Yes."

That was flattering. And intimidating. As for not having been with a man since the Horsemen… "Have you been waiting all these years for me?" Connor asked in concern, because that was downright unnerving.

"You have always been in my heart," she said, as she had told him before on another winter day, then added with a touch of tartness, "but don't worry; I have had a life of my own. I dated quite a bit, Maureen and I were lovers, and I did try with Miguel. He was sweet and kind and patient, and we cared for each other, but I hadn't told him about immortality or the Game of any of that. He didn't even know my real name." Her shrug was one of helplessness, not of unconcern. "I couldn't. It didn't feel right. Then I moved to Prague and I was busy, and after that I was traveling a lot. It made it harder to meet people, though I didn't stop looking.

"Then Alex died," Cassandra concluded, "and I started waiting for you."

That was a little unnerving, too. But before you could be honest with other people, Connor reminded himself, you had to be honest with yourself. He had loved Alex, and he had been faithful to his wife in thought, word, and deed for thirty-three years. But he had never forgotten Cassandra, and as his grief had subsided, he had begun thinking about her.

Duncan had known that; he'd said as much on their sea voyage. Sara knew it. Hell, even Alex had known it. She'd left him a letter to be opened ten years after her death, telling him that if he wanted to be with Cassandra, it was all right with her.

Cassandra knew it too. They had no reason to pretend. "Thanks for being patient," Connor said to Cassandra.

"Any time," she said, matching his earlier dry tone.

"I'm not patient," Connor warned her. "Or sweet. Or kind."

"No," she agreed promptly. "You're not. But you're strong, and you care, and you understand me." With a single look from under lowered lashes, she shifted from serious to flirtatious. "And I'm very much looking forward to fulfilling our pledge."

Being honest was important, but this part of dating was a lot more fun. "So am I."

Then Cassandra came to him, stepping closer and tightening the clasp of their hands. He waited, letting her get comfortable, until she smiled up at him and whispered, "Yes." Then slowly, gently, he kissed her forehead, then each cheek, and then the tip of her nose.

"Connor," she said, laughing a little, and then they kissed each other, sweet and warm in the cold winter air.

* * *

><p>The students began returning that weekend, and everyone was busy with preparations for the Twelfth Night Ball. The mats and training equipment were removed from the dojo, and it once again became a grand hall, suitable for banquets and balls. A trainload of boys and young men arrived on Tuesday afternoon. That evening, families from nearby towns came to the castle, for the ball had become a community tradition since the school had opened fifteen years before.<p>

Cassandra wore her new green dress and wound silver ribbons through her hair. Connor, like most of the other men, wore the latest retro style for formal wear (made popular by a string of movies from Medea Corporation and Amanda's fashion boutiques): a white velvet doublet with green slashed sleeves atop a white linen shirt, black breeches, and knee-high boots. People complimented him on his accessories: a black cloak, a golden earring, and a sword. His hair was braided into a neat queue and tied with black velvet ribbon. "You look just like a pirate!" Alea exclaimed, and Connor laughed while Sara rolled her eyes. The music and the dancing went on all night.

Just before dawn, Connor and Cassandra climbed one of the towers, and he wrapped his cloak and his arms about her as she leaned back against him and they watched the sun rise. After they ate breakfast together, he invited her out for dinner on Thursday, and then he walked to her room.

"Thank you, Connor, for a wonderful evening. And night, and morning," she said, as they lingered just outside her door.

A smile hovered near the corners of his mouth, and his eyes were intent on hers. "You're welcome."

"And for a wonderful week," she added, laying her hand on his forearm. She couldn't help but smile. "It's exactly what I need."

He nodded and said quietly, "Good."

That single word sent a shiver down her spine. She moved toward him, her hand sliding up his arm and to his shoulder, luxuriating in the softness of velvet along the way, and coming to rest underneath his hair.

His hand came up, the back of his knuckles caressing her cheek as his thumb followed the curve of her jaw, but he waited for her, as he'd been waiting for her all week, sweet and patient and kind. His other hand found hers, and their fingers intertwined.

There were better ways to thank someone than with words. Cassandra pulled him closer and kissed him. It was a chaste kiss, tender and gentle, as all their kisses had been thus far. But this morning, after a night of dancing together and watching the sunrise from the shelter of his arms, Cassandra was ready for more.

She stepped closer, melding her body against his, while her fingertips splayed out along the base of his skull. Immediately, Connor's grip tightened on her other hand, and Cassandra closed her eyes and opened her mouth, tasting the warmth of his lips. He wrapped his arms around her, both hands slipping beneath her hair to slide slowly along her naked skin, traveling from the nape of her neck to the base of her spine. With gentle strength and careful eagerness, Connor followed her lead as the kiss deepened from sweetness to desire, and dark spikes of passion flared.

But Cassandra knew, much as she did not want him to leave, she was not ready for him to stay. She placed her hands on his upper arms and regretfully pulled away. Connor breathed out slowly, his forehead touching hers, and when she met his eyes they were molten grey. Cassandra took one of the silver ribbons from her hair then placed it in his hand. "Tomorrow night," she whispered, and with that promise and a smile, she went into her room and shut the door.

After a brief nap to make up for the missed night of sleep, Cassandra spent the rest of the day planning for the new term's classes, reading reports, and answering mail, trying to catch up on work undone. Thursday was more of the same, too much more, and she never did get to the analysis of the immortal killings. But she stopped in the late afternoon anyway; it was time to get ready for Connor.

She tidied her room and went through her closet and decided what to wear: a warm dress of dark blue lambswool. It was long-sleeved, high-necked, down to her knees, and it fit her very well, covering everything and hiding nothing. She braided two plaits of her hair and wound them round her head like a crown, letting the rest hang free. Black boots and silver earrings completed the outfit, and as always, she tucked her priestess necklace with the triple crescent beneath her gown.

At six in the evening precisely, Connor knocked on her door, handsome in a soft beige sweater and brown slacks, with a touch of dashing from his "pirate" earring of gold, though he'd traded his cloak for a coat and hidden his sword in the lining within.

Dinner was perfect, and they talked of books they had read and plays they had seen, laughing over little things. After, Connor once more brought her back to her room. "Come in," she invited, and he followed her then shut the door.

"Tea?" she offered after they took off their shoes, for the walk back had been cold. He nodded, and she served it in the same two cups she had used a week ago, and they sat in the same two chairs. When her fingers were warm enough, she played the harp then sang an ancient Gaelic tune for him, a song of a selkie and the sea and a child returned to its home. Connor listened with his eyes closed.

When the last chords faded, he looked up with a smile and commented, "Haven't heard that in a while."

"I learned it from a seamstress," Cassandra told him, "while I was living in Aberdeen." At the name of that town, dark memory flickered in his eyes, for it was in Aberdeen that she had shredded his trust four centuries ago. Nearly fifty years ago, she had explained and apologized and Connor had forgiven her, but their hearts were tender right now and she wanted no shadows between them.

Cassandra left the harp and went to kneel before him, an ancient pose of penitence. "I am so sorry, Connor," she said, abandoning centuries of training and control so that her voice revealed her anguish and sorrow. "I never wanted to hurt you. I didn't mean—"

"I know," he said, and he leaned forward and took her hands between his. "It's past," he said firmly. "It's done. Right?"

"Yes," she agreed, and she closed her eyes as he placed his lips upon her forehead in a kiss of benediction and forgiveness, giving them both a welcome peace.

When she opened her eyes again, he hadn't moved back, and she lifted his hands to place them against her heart… between her breasts. "Though there is one thing still undone," she told him, looking into his eyes and beginning a slow caress of his hands with her fingertips. "That day, I promised I'd sing to you." His pupils dilated at that, a sure sign of desire, and she leaned toward him to say softly, urgently, "I'd like to keep that promise… tonight."

His smile started in his eyes and spread slowly, until all the world was aglow, like a sunrise at sea. "Tonight," he repeated.

"If, that is, you're not too busy?" Cassandra said, even as she pressed his hands closer to her.

He appeared to consider the matter, while his thumb began a slow circle against her skin . "I think my schedule's open."

"Or too tired?" she asked, all solicitousness.

Connor shook his head and said solemnly. "I took a nap today."

"Good," she said with equally solemn satisfaction. Then she kissed him, and her hands roved up his arms to the solid strength of his shoulders and then to the back of his neck, under the softness of his hair. His hands settled on her shoulders, where the gentleness of his grip belied the tightness of his control, and his kiss was tender… and restrained.

Cassandra pulled back, a question in her eyes. "You're in charge," he told her, with a wryly crooked smile, but his words had been serious and his hands hadn't moved.

"I see," Cassandra said, realizing that Connor was being sweet and patient and kind, giving her the time—and the control—she needed to get comfortable again. "Thank you."

"My pleasure," he said, grinning openly now.

"It will be," she promised, tracing the curve of his cheek with her thumb in the way she remembered he enjoyed, and was gratified to see that playful cheerfulness instantly transformed to smoldering intensity.

But she wasn't the only one who remembered. Connor's hand brushed along her shoulder, and suddenly she could feel the beating of her heart, hard against her ribs. He reached out and lifted a lock of her hair, caressing the strands between his thumb and forefinger, while his left hand moved to the nape of her neck. Slowly, his left hand urged her closer while he wound her hair round his right fingers, bringing her mouth to his. "Later," he said, his words a whisper touch against her lips, "the pleasure will be yours."

Desire surged through her, a rush so sudden that if she'd been standing she would have swayed on her feet. She breathed in the taste of him, their lips not quite touching, his beard a soft tickle against her skin. She would have kissed him, had not Connor unwound his hand from her hair and sat back a little, saying with more than a trace of smug satisfaction, "But now, it's my turn."

"Yes," she agreed, taking in a deep breath of air, slowing her pulse, "it is." Her turn had been in Aberdeen, and she owed him, with interest accrued.

"And before that," he said, standing and pulling her to her feet with him, "it's my turn in the WC." With that return to reality, he kissed her cheerfully then padded silently on stocking feet to the lavatory.

Cassandra quickly stripped off her clothes and her jewelry, then pulled on her white silk leggings and shirt. They were easy to move in, not like a dress that would become tangled between legs or stuck under one knee. But the thin fabric clung to her, nearly translucent, sleek and smooth against bare skin, and she wasn't ready to be that exposed, that vulnerable. Cassandra took them off and put on her cashmere pajamas instead. They clung to her, too, voluptuously soft and warm, but revealing mostly by touch, not by eye. Then she pulled on socks, because her feet were already cold, and having someone else's icy toes touch bare skin definitely killed the mood.

If, after she had sung to him, they decided to make love together tonight, she was certain that Connor would not mind taking off her clothes, no matter how many she wore.

She lit the candle on the small shelf in the bed alcove and turned off the electric light, bringing back ancient times. She took the last remaining moments to arrange her hair, repinning her braids and bringing a few tresses forward and letting the rest hang down her back.

When Connor emerged, he nodded in approval, first at the flame and then, more slowly, at her, She stood proud and unmoving under the warmth of his appreciative gaze, and when his eyes met hers, Cassandra went to him and took him by the hand. "Come," she said and led Connor to her bed.

There, by the flickering light of the candle, she set out to learn anew the touch and feel of him, to understand the man he was now. Connor looked the same, of course, for fierce combat and harsh toil left no visible marks, and the decades slid by. Yet his skin, for all it was unscarred and smooth, covered countless wounds, and hurts of the soul went deeper still. Joy and contentment had created different patterns, as did every choice made over the countless years. Since Cassandra had last touched him, Connor had fought in wars, taken heads, and sailed across oceans. He had buried two more wives and a daughter, and he had watched his children being born. The hands that had held a killing blade had also tied the laces of tiny shoes and played peek-a-boo.

All of that made up the man she now held in her arms. As she slowly undressed him, she traced those changes with her fingertips and kissed those places that held pain and those that held joy. She caressed him with her hair and her hands, all the while speaking to him of what she found, marveling at the lean grace of him, the strength in his shoulders and his hands, the suppleness of his limbs and the dusky crescent of his eyelashes on his cheeks. She sang to him of his beauty, of the honey-sweet taste of his skin and the honey-dark silk of his hair, of the subtle curve of hip and thigh, of the power at his core. "Connor," she called to him again and again, for though he'd used many names over the years, Connor was who he remained.

And when finally Cassandra knew the man that he had become, she set out to love him anew. Gentle touches became teasing; tenderness and healing gave way to passion. Her song now was of the strength of his desire, urged on to need by her hands and kisses and murmurs in the darkness, until at last he called her name, half growl and half plea.

"Yes," she answered, and closed her eyes and tasted him, remembering well the shape and feel of his staff along her tongue. As his passion flared she moved with him, matching his rhythm, carried along by his need. Connor's hands were tangled tightly in her hair, and then he called out her name once more. Yes. And yes and yes and yes and yes.

And yes.

"Cassandra," he whispered finally, his limbs now utterly quiescent, and she pulled the covers oven them both as she moved up to the head of the bed. She kissed him fierce and sweet while he wrapped his arms around her and held her tight against his heart, and then they fell asleep in each others' arms.

* * *

><p>Connor woke to darkness and a single candle flame, naked in a bed that was not his own, with a woman by his side. Not an unpleasant way to wake up, and not an unfamiliar experience, though it hadn't happened in quite some time.<p>

He hadn't woken in the darkness with Cassandra for centuries. In the autumn it had been, 1599, at that little inn in Dalkeith, next to the quick-running burn. Connor did the math: four hundred forty-four years since she had last sung to him in bed, giving him her complete attention and all her skill, spending hours making him feel appreciated, desired, cherished… loved.

Somehow, he hadn't quite realized that before. He'd remembered the erotic aspects clearly, but he'd never put a name to the emotion. Some things were easier left unsaid.

Often, those were precisely the things that needed to be said.

Cassandra opened her eyes and looked at him across the pillow. "Hey," he said softly, offering her his hand, and she clasped it with her own, saying, "Hey" in return as they smiled at each other.

Connor bent his head to kiss her hand, feeling first the tiny tickles of invisible hairs and then the smoothness of skin against his lips. "Thank you," he said to her. "That was…" He stopped, hunting for the right word. Exhilarating? Incredible? Fan-fucking-tastic?

All of them were true, but none of them was enough. What did Cassandra need him to say? "Thank you," he began again. "You made me feel unbelievably good… and utterly cherished."

Her smile was one of utter joy. "I'm glad," she said. "All these years, I've wanted to share that with you, to let you know how much I—"

In her brief pause, Connor heard what was easier left unsaid.

"—care for you," she finished. "Always."

"Yes," he answered simply, for tonight, the joy and tenderness in her touch had soothed that bitter doubt he'd borne inside him for centuries, healed him as her words alone (however heartfelt and honest) could not. "I believe you," he told her, another thing she needed to hear him say, erasing the legacy of her lies, letting her know he trusted her now.

Though she kept smiling, she was suddenly blinking back tears, so Connor kissed them away, one by one, following the curve of her cheekbone, finding the dampness at her temple, taking care of the drop on the side of her nose. Cassandra lifted her face to his, lips soft and slightly open, and she kissed him, sweet and warm and tender, and as before, Connor kept his hands from moving and tried to keep his passion at bay.

That hadn't been easy all this past week, and it was damn near impossible now, what with lying naked in bed only inches away from her, and her scent in the air, and the touch of her hands and the feel of her lips and her hair still vividly imprinted on his skin and in his mind. He longed to undress her, to slowly reveal the smooth skin that he knew lay beneath the softness of cashmere. He ached to touch her, to feel the length of her pressed firmly against him, legs intertwined, bare skin to bare skin, her breasts warm and full in his hands, while he buried his face in her hair and nuzzled though that living silk to kiss his way from the pulse at the base of her throat to the softness under her chin, and then to taste the sweetness of her lips with his tongue, until she opened her mouth to his, sharing their breath and then moving together as one…

Cassandra let go of his hand and put her palm on his shoulder, holding him there as she moved back slightly on the bed. Connor exhaled slowly, digging his nails into his palm and mentally reciting the table of elements, trying to visualize the orbit of the outer shell of electrons in each one. He was only to fluorine when Cassandra said, "I'm sorry, Connor. I don't meant to tease."

"You're not," he said. "It's just…"

"I see," she said immediately, and he was glad some things didn't need to be said. "Have you been with anyone recently?" she asked next.

A reasonable question, given the circumstances. And honesty needed to go both ways. "About eighteen months ago," he told her.

Cassandra nodded, seeming unsurprised. "When Rachel died. "

"Yeah." Connor would have preferred to have left it there, but he and Cassandra had agreed to try to share. He cleared his throat and volunteered, "Elsa – she was Rachel's nurse— was living with us, and…"

"I see," Cassandra said again. "Rachel suggested it, didn't she?"

Connor had to smile. "Yes, she did." Rachel had always been a matchmaker. She'd told Connor that Elsa was interested in him, and he had no doubt Rachel had told Elsa that Connor was interested in her.

And so, one evening after Rachel had fallen asleep and he and Elsa had almost finished cleaning the kitchen, when he'd seen Elsa staring at him with a dishtowel forgotten in her hands, Connor had walked over and gently taken the towel from her. Then he slowly bent his head to hers, the age-old question in his eyes, until Elsa had answered yes by kissing him; then Connor had led her to his room. Night after night, she'd knocked on his door and they had taken comfort with each other, and neither of them had need for words. Ten days later, Rachel had died. After the funeral, Elsa had bidden him a fond farewell and gone on her way. Connor had gone walk-about for six months then moved to an ancient castle to be with his daughter and granddaughter, and tonight Cassandra had led him to her bed.

He laid his fingers gently atop hers. "When you're ready, Cassandra," he began, making it clear the choice and the timing were completely up to her, "I would love to make love to you."

"I would love that, too," she answered fervently. "And believe me, I will let you know as soon as I'm ready."

Connor's answer was just as fervent. "Good."

"Tonight," she said softly, "I'd like us to make love together, or at least… I'd like to start, but I'm not sure I can finish."

"It's all right," he said, knowing he still had ninety-three elements to go. "I can handle it."

"Or I can," she replied with a saucy grin.

Connor laughed aloud. "Indeed you can." She'd proven that quite well.

"I may not be ready for you to touch me just yet," she said, serious again, while her fingertips slid along his shoulder until her thumb came to rest in the hollow of his throat, so that Connor could feel the steady thrum of his pulse against her skin, "but I am very happy to touch you."

And now each beat was distinct and clear, his blood surging at her words. "Yes," he told her, and she smiled before she kissed him, her body pressed firmly against his, her legs intertwined with his own. Connor buried his face in the living silk of her hair.

Thus he began, trying to heal her hurts as she had healed his, with gentle touch and tender joy. They paused often, simply holding each other or kissing, taking time to talk and making each other laugh. "You're beautiful," he told her, looking only at her eyes, then he murmured words of desire while he kissed each fingertip, the palm of her hand and the softness of her inner wrist, sending tiny shivers all along her arm. She did the same for him while he attended to her other hand.

Then Cassandra guided his hand to her breast, first atop the cashmere and then, sometime later, beneath it. Her breasts were warm and full in his hands, just as he'd imagined, and he and Cassandra kissed leisurely, lying side by side, until she began to move against him and asked him for more.

And so it went, slow and gentle, with Cassandra setting the pace as the candle burned itself away, though occasionally he was the one to call for a break, counting more elements and envisioning the shape of electron shells. He was on iron, number twenty-six, focusing on the different elements that could combine with iron to make steel, when Cassandra told him, "Lie back" and then proceeded to arouse him with such thoroughness and effectiveness that he was at the edge and then over it, feeling as if he'd just sprinted a quarter-mile.

"Wow," he managed, when he could breathe again.

"You seemed tense," she said, and he had been. It was easier to concentrate now. He gave her his full attention and didn't need to think about elements anymore.

In the darkness, to his delight, she allowed him to slowly unveil her beauty, until she was naked in his arms, her skin silken against his, the way he remembered it from long ago. Their hands caressed each other's bodies, and now she met his desire and matched it with her own.

"I want you," she told him, a sweet whisper, and pushed him back against the pillows then knelt above him, her feet close against the outside of his thighs, the tips of her breasts brushing his chest, her lips just above his. Connor caught his breath when she touched him, then held his breath when she guided him to her core, only to pause there, unmoving.

"We can stop," he told her, and he supposed it would have been possible, but he was infinitely glad when she said, "No" and lowered herself with exquisite slowness onto him, joining them in passion and need.

"God," he muttered as desire flooded him, hot and liquid along every limb, while she whispered, "Goddess," at the exact same time. He had to smile, and he heard her laugh before she kissed him, her mouth open to his, and desire flooded him once more.

"I want you, Connor," she said again. "Connor, please."

"Yes," he told her, as she had told him. "Yes, Cassandra. Yes."

Slowly then, they began to move as one, then more urgently, until at last she called out his name in fierce ecstasy and he answered with hers, and so they found each other once again.

* * *

><p>In the morning, Cassandra slowly opened her eyes. Daylight was seeping through the curtains, and the clock on the headboard read 7:01. Connor was directly behind her, so that they curled close like two spoons in a drawer, bare skin to bare skin from her head to her toes, a wonderful feeling everywhere. She felt wonderful, too. Last night had been sheer delight— and no small relief. She'd been concerned she might have to stop, but Connor had given her the time and the reassurance she'd needed, and she'd been able to make love with him on the very first night. And this morning, too, she had no doubt. But not just now.<p>

Cassandra shut her eyes and snuggled closer to him, luxuriating in wanton laziness and looking forward to being woken—later—in a much more pleasant way. Connor tightened his arm about her and kissed the back of her neck, and they both dozed off once more.

But at 7:32, the phone buzzed. Connor muttered some curses in Arabic as he leaned half off the bed and groped on the floor for his pants, emerging eventually with his phone in his hand. He flopped back on the pillow and clicked the phone on, reaching for Cassandra with his other hand. She laid her head on his shoulder and listened to the beating of his heart, and he put his arm around her shoulders.

"Good morning, Dad," came Sara's cheerful voice.

Connor cleared his throat. "Good morning, Princess."

"Are you just getting up?" she said, sounding surprised.

"Not much sleep last night," he explained briefly, while his hand made its delightfully slow way down Cassandra's arm.

"OK," Sara said then asked, "Want to go running later? Do the usual hills?"

"Not today, Sara."

"Oh," she said, sounding a bit nonplussed, and then: "Ah." Cassandra could hear an enormous smile in that one small word, and then Sara laughed aloud. "Way to go, Dad! And about time."

"Sara…," Connor warned.

"Tell Cassandra 'Hi' for me," Sara said, still laughing, then clicked off her phone.

Connor shook his head and rolled his eyes then stretched one arm overhead to put his phone on the shelf. "Sara says, 'Hi'," he announced.

"I heard."

His hand had stopped moving, and he asked, "Want to sleep more?"

"Yes," Cassandra said even as she half sat up to kiss him good morning and then kiss him awake, all over and everywhere. "After."

* * *

><p>After, they slept. Later that morning Connor woke Cassandra in a much more pleasant way. And after that, he offered to comb her hair. She pulled on her robe for warmth and sat cross-legged on the bed while he stood behind her, untangling the long strands with careful hands and a wooden comb. He was working near her left shoulder when he asked softly, "How are you doing?"<p>

"Wonderfully," Cassandra said, looking up at him with a merry smile. "And I'm having fun. You?"

Connor grinned. "Oh yeah." Then he sat beside her on the bed, and they reached for each other's hands. His eyes searched hers. "Is this what you wanted?"

"Yes," she said and kissed him lightly on the nose. He laughed and so did she, and then she kissed his mouth, serious again. "It's what I've hoped for," Cassandra told him.

For centuries past and for centuries to come.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Next: The students find out who picked the right date and won the bet<br>**_


	11. The Watchers

**THE WATCHERS**

* * *

><p><strong>Akademie der Sankte Hildegard, Friday 9 January 2043<strong>

* * *

><p>On Friday afternoon the word was passed via q-mail and old-fashioned whispers, and that night scores of girls gathered in the Aspen lecture hall, filling the rows of seats and even sitting on the floor. Four of the older students guarded the doors.<p>

"Did you bring popcorn?" Alea asked Monique as the lights went out.

"Shhh!" hissed the girl behind them. "It's about to start."

The video opened with a screenful of credits, the letters and pictures moving about to the recent dance tune from Lalolo. Marie and Gretchen got credit for actually paying attention in computer class and being able to access the security feeds, Winifred was thanked for her photography, Viu for the music, and Salet and Zia for alerting the team. Then the names of everyone in the Art of Video class danced in vivid color across the screen.

"I guess we know who made the video," Monique said dryly.

"Shh!" came the voice from behind.

"Oh, hush," Alea said without turning around. "You've heard this song a thousand times before."

But then that song faded and sweeping arpeggios of some kind of string music filled the room, while the video swooped over beautiful valleys and snow-covered mountains, finally ending up at the school, but hovering high above so that you could see the river and the town and valley, too, as if you were a bird. The view shifted to blue sky and white clouds with an eagle soaring in the distance, and the rainbow title "Aerie of Love" slowly bloomed upon the screen.

"Great goddess above, what a title," muttered Monique, and Alea giggled. Monique despised what she called "candy-ass love." Behind them, the shushing girl noisily got to her feet and moved.

Then the viewpoint spiraled down, ending at the tower that held the music room, and a picture of Sister Laina playing her harp and the words "Starring Sister Laina" appeared. The music stayed soft and flowing as still-shots of Sister Laina came and went upon the screen: Sister Laina in the classroom lecturing, teaching a weaving class, riding one of the generator bikes, making a funny face at dinner, and finally staring pensively out the window, looking across the courtyard to…

…the dojo, where Sensei Mike was staring straight at the camera, a silver sai in each hand, looking sexily dangerous. When the words "Starring Sensei Mike" came on screen, girls cheered. The next few minutes came from a regular training video, as Sensei Mike moved in slow motion through one of the advanced _kata_s. The watching girls sighed. Another montage began: stills of him sitting on a horse, eating in the refectory, returning the bows of a row of young (and very short) students in the dojo, and standing on the top of the one of the castle walls, looking out over the valley. The sunshine made his hair and beard almost gold.

"Did the video girls ask you for family photos?" Monique asked. "Since he's your cousin?"

"Yeah, but my mom didn't have any," Alea answered. "She doesn't do pictures much."

The next still showed him sweaty and shirtless, just returned from a run, and that morphed into a video, as he did pull-up after pull-up on the bar. Alea was mesmerized by the muscles rippling under his skin. More sighs of appreciation rustled around the room. Then he was back in white karate gi and black belt, as short clip after clip showed him dropping different people (including Alea) on the dojo mat.

"What's that song?" Alea whispered, for she didn't recognize the heavy beat or the words about people biting the dust.

"It's a classic by a British group called Queen," Monique replied. "It's really old, like 1960s or something." She started singing along: "And another one down, and another one down, and another one bites the dust!"

The dojo scene faded away, and the music got romantic again with sunshine sparkling on a mountain stream and the words "The magic begins…" flowing across the screen. Monique groaned and called upon the goddess again. Now there were pictures with both Sister Laina and Sensei Mike, or at least a picture of each of them on the screen at the same time, usually arranged so they seemed to be either smiling at or staring longingly at each other. Then came action video from last summer, with Sister Laina and Sensei Mike sparring in the dojo.

"Are those wooden swords they're using?" Monique asked.

"Yes, they're called bokken," Alea said, trying to keep track of all the moves.

"Sister Laina's good," Monique said in surprise. "I thought she just did music and art stuff."

A date-stamp appeared in the bottom corner of the screen: December 21. "That's the day I left!" Alea said, feeling somewhat put upon. She'd been keeping watch on Sensei Mike and Sister Laina for weeks and they hadn't done more than look at each other, usually when the other one was looking away. But in the pictures on screen, Sensei Mike and Sister Laina were looking out a window together (December 21), saddling horses together (December 22), laughing together in the refectory (December 23), and standing side by side in a church (December 24).

"They go to church?" Monique asked in bewilderment.

"Concert," Alea explained, pointing to the musicians in the background.

Then came a long-distance shot with thermal image enhancement, obviously from a security camera, showing the couple standing intriguingly close together in the courtyard. A yellow circle appeared, drawing attention to Sister Laina's hand, which was definitely touching Sensei Mike's. The time stamp read December 24, 21:34. A few people cheered. One minute later, Sister Laina was mostly out of frame, and Sensei Mike was standing there alone, looking up at the sky.

The next day, on December 25 at 10:32, Sensei Mike entered the music room. Eleven minutes later, Sister Laina walked out. It was hard to tell, but Alea thought she saw tears. Sensei Mike didn't leave for another nine minutes. He looked serious but calm. On December 26 at 14:12, Sister Laina boarded a train in town with a woman who had short blonde hair.

Then the screen went black except for the title "Where did the magic go?" and only the calendar showed, steadily counting the days: 26, 27, 28, 29, 30, 31. Muttered curses and shrieks popped up here and there among the audience as their chosen dates came and went.

"Why don't they show us what he was doing while she was gone?" Alea asked.

Monique shrugged. "They probably think a totally black screen is artsy or ultra post modern or some such."

On January 1 the lights came back on, and Sister Laina was shown at the train station again, along with the caption: "The Magic Returns!" A security camera showed Sensei Mike at Sister Laina's office door at 15:59, and he didn't leave until 16:42. At 19:32 that same day he was standing outside Sister Laina's bedroom door, his hair all ruffled from the wind. Two students were visible in the background, near the stairs.

"What's he holding?" Monique asked.

"That's a piece of his birthday pie," Alea replied, but she needn't have bothered. Another yellow circle appeared on screen, highlighting the container as the caption appeared: "He brings her pie!" But he left her room at 20:13, and Sister Laina didn't even appear.

The next shot was dated January 2, 07:29. He was walking down Sister Laina's corridor, and once again his hands were full. "He brings her oranges!" the caption blared. "For breakfast!" Sister Laina opened the door to him at 07:31. Someone cheered. He left an hour later, and she saw him to her door.

On January third, a long-distance picture clearly showed them holding hands as they stood in a meadow under a big oak tree, and Sensei Mike's head was bent to hers. "Did they kiss?" read the caption.

January fourth and fifth went by with only innocuous shots, including one of her going into his room for about ten minutes while he got his riding boots, and then on January sixth came the Twelfth Night Ball. Murmurs of appreciation filled the room when Sensei Mike appeared in his pirate outfit, and murmurs of envy and admiration greeted Sister Laina's green gown and flowing red hair.

"That's only half a dress," Monique observed. Though the neckline was fairly modest, the bodice was a single band of cloth that went behind the neck, crossed over each breast and then attached to the skirt at the sides, so that both the navel and the entire back were exposed. The front of the skirt reached only to mid thigh then from there fell in a sharp V to the floor, so with every step came a glimpse of leg. At the ball it had taken Alea a while to realize just how little fabric there was, because Sister Laina had worn her hair in long cascades of curls, and her hair had covered most of the bare skin.

There had been a lot of cameras at the ball, and the film class had been able to splice together different videos to show the couple dancing from multiple angles and to several different songs. "The waltz is way more romantic than the tango," Monique said as they watched Sensei Mike whirl Sister Laina around the room, "and the way they're dancing it, it's sexy too. "

"I think it's sexy because of the way they're looking at each other," Alea observed. "When I waltzed with him, it wasn't sexy, but it was fun to twirl round and round and get dipped sometimes. He's got a strong lead."

In the corner of the screen, the clock ticked along. The floor grew less crowded, but the music kept on and Sensei Mike and Sister Laina were still at the ball. Finally they went to breakfast, dressed in their fancy clothes, and then Sensei Mike escorted Sister Laina to her room. There in the hallway, in full view of the security camera, she pulled him to her and kissed him, and no question mark was needed here. Her hand was at the nape of his neck, urging him closer, and his hands were buried underneath her hair, roving up and down her naked back.

"Ain't no daylight between those two," came the comment from the girl two rows over, loud enough for everyone to hear. And still the kiss went on. People started to clap and cheer. Finally, Sister Laina and Sensei Mike stopped, and she undid a ribbon from her incredibly long hair and pressed it into his hand. Then she gave him a lingering smile and went in her room. He stood, staring at the door for a minute, winding the ribbon round and round one hand, then headed down the hall, whistling.

The calendar flashed: Thursday, January 8, 18:00. Sensei Mike once again appeared in Sister Laina's hallway. He knocked, she answered, they walked out together, dressed for winter weather in coats and knitted hats. Then they were eating dinner at the Italian restaurant in town, she in a dark blue dress and long silver earrings, he in the cream-and-brown sweater of soft alpaca wool that Alea had helped her mom pick out as a Christmas present for him. The time stamp was 19:02. "That's my picture!" a girl near the front called in excitement. "I was having dinner with my mom, and they just walked in! I saw them holding hands across the table!"

At 20:33 Sensei Mike and Sister Laina showed up in the courtyard camera, and security cameras tracked them to her door. They didn't kiss in the hallway; this time she invited him in, and he was the one to close the door.

"I'm surprised nobody put cameras in their rooms," Monique confided.

"Somebody did mention it," Alea replied, "but everybody agreed it would be wrong. Plus, they both always lock their doors."

The clock kept ticking; the door stayed closed. Midnight, one in the morning, two… Someone started chanting the time, and soon all of them were calling out the hours: five, six, seven, eight, nine!

At 9:47 on Friday morning the door finally opened. Sensei Mike and Sister Laina were just visible in the doorway, and they were holding hands. Sensei Mike stepped into the hallway, wearing the same clothes he had worn the night before. He said something and then listened in return. He started laughing, and then her hand reached out and pulled him back inside. He kicked the door shut with his foot, and it was closed once more.

The room erupted with cheers and whistles, and Alea and Monique were on their feet and clapping. The screen was flashing "8 January!" along with the words "The Magic of Love Goes On". Nobody could really hear the music; but Alea thought it was the Hallelujah chorus.

When the picture faded from the screen, people gradually sat back down. Athene, one of the oldest girls there and a member of the film class, came to the front. "The purse is four hundred twenty-five Euros," she announced. "Are we all agreed the date is January eighth?"

A dark-haired girl in the back stood up and asked, "What if they waited until after midnight?"

"Oh, please," muttered Monique.

"They went into her room at eight-thirty-nine," Athene said. "Does anyone here think they waited more than three hours?" Not one person raised a hand. "January eighth is it then." She clicked a button and the January betting sheet was displayed on the screen.

"O Goddess," Alea muttered and slid down in her chair.

Athene looked out over the crowd of girls and asked, "Who has the initials S–H-Mc?"

No one answered. Slowly, Alea got to her feet, climbed over Monique's legs, and went to the front of the room.

"Your initials are A-R-H," Athene said.

Alea nodded. "S–H–Mc is for Sara Heather MacLeod." Everybody just looked at her, so she added, "Sister Caorran."

"Your mother?" Athene said in disbelief, and a hiss of outrage ran around the room. "You told your mother?"

"She already knew about it," Alea explained. "I didn't tell her anything."

It didn't matter. The girls were still mad.

"Ignore them," Monique said, swooping down the aisle then linking arms with Alea. "They just wish the money was theirs." Alea took the envelope with the money from Athene, then Alea and Monique left, arm in arm. "Might as well do it now," Monique said when they reached the corridor. "Will your mother still be awake?"

"It's only eight-thirty," Alea said and led the way through the castle to their family suite.

Will was seated at the table, making yet another intricate creation of wire, rocks, and glass. He looked up when they came in. "Hi, Monique," he said cheerfully, then gave a special smile and a nod. "Alea."

"Will," she said and smiled in return. It was all they ever needed to say. "Is Mom in?"

Will jerked his head to the closed bedroom door, already reabsorbed into his project. Alea stepped over last week's creation of string and metal on her way across the room.

"What are those?" Monique whispered.

Alea shrugged. "He calls them shambles. He's made them since he was about five." Juliette had forbidden any more after the first eight, which was one of the reasons Will had wanted to come home.

"They're pretty," Monique said, turning to look at the one hanging over the couch.

"Sister Laina likes them, too," Alea said then knocked on the bedroom door.

"Come in," Mom said, and Alea and Monique stepped inside. Mom was sitting in the middle of the bed, surrounded by piles of paper. She had a pen tucked behind her right ear. "Hello, Monique," Mom said. "Alea."

"Mom." That was all they ever needed to say, too. "You won," Alea announced. Mom tilted her head, looking confused, and Alea added, "The betting sheet on Sensei Mike and Sister Laina. You picked yesterday, so you get the four hundred twenty-five Euros." Alea put the envelope on the edge of the bed.

"Ah, yes," Mom said, smiling a little. Then, looking confused again, she asked, "How did you know the date?"

"We took a vote," Monique said, "even though the time markers on the video made it pretty clear."

"Video?" Mom said. Her smile had disappeared.

"The girls in the Art of Film class spliced together security feeds and stills and some karate training vids to make a movie," Alea explained. "They even added music and captions; it came out nice."

"Except for the candy-ass titles," muttered Monique.

"Holy Mother," Mom swore in a quiet whisper then exploded off the bed in a blizzard of papers. "Where is the video?" Mom demanded while she pulled on her shoes. Behind her, a paper floated gently down.

"Mom!" Alea protested. "You can't—"

Her mother fixed her with a serious glare. "Where?"

Alea swallowed hard. "We were in the Aspen lecture hall, but the girls with the vid may have gone to someone's room by now."

Mom cursed again then took out her phone and punched two buttons. "Councilor Caorran here," she said, each syllable clipped and precise."Requesting security shutdown two-alpha, Phinyx House at St. Hildegarde, Austria. Immediate." She listened, nodded, then said something in a language Alea had never heard before.

Monique looked at Alea, eyebrows zoomed up and eyes wide. Alea shrugged helplessly and shook her head.

"Confirmed," Mom said then turned off the phone. She took a deep breath then smiled at Alea and Monique, saying, "Let's go find the video."

* * *

><p>An hour later, Sara knocked on Cassandra's door, a copy of the video in hand.<p>

"Oh my," Cassandra said several times as she watched the video unfold. Dad was silent, but he closed his eyes here and there. They were sitting next to each other, holding hands.

Sara supposed she'd get used to that, in time.

When the video was over, Cassandra smiled at him and said ruefully, "No more kissing in the halls."

"Yeah," he said, rubbing his hand over his beard. "I'll talk to Erika about the security of her security feeds. I'll also tell her to talk with Marie and Gretchen. Maybe even hire them."

"How many girls saw this?" Cassandra asked.

"Alea said at least a hundred."

Dad shook his head and closed his eyes again. "Karate class is going to be hell." Then he asked, "You said you had the Guardians cut power to the transmitter?"

Sara nodded. "There's no phone service or web access anywhere in the valley right now, so we still have a chance to stop this before it gets posted."

"Smart," he said, with the look of serious approval that let her know he was proud.

Sara straightened a little as she smiled at him, "Thanks, Dad. I already talked to the girls who made the video, and reminded them of our honor code about respecting each others' privacy. I also told them that Sister Laina's ex-boyfriend was a stalker who would try to kill you both if he knew she had a lover."

Dad lifted his eyebrows as Cassandra said, "Nice touch."

Sara shrugged. "More believable than the Game. So, the girls agreed not to post it, and I watched them delete the videos on their phones. But I suspect there are more copies out there." She looked at Cassandra. "You could ask them."

"I could," she agreed slowly. "Is it worth it? Our pictures are already on the web, under a variety of names. Privacy is nearly impossible these days."

Dad nodded but said, "Stories go viral more than stills. And, even if we didn't have people after our heads or need to protect the secret of immortality, I don't want this out there."

"I don't either," Cassandra said. "But my preference isn't 'great need'."

"Keeping the secret is," Dad replied. "And if it's not kept, we'll have 'great danger', too."

Sara had heard those phrases before, for Cassandra had explained that centuries ago she had vowed not to use the Voice except in times of great danger or great need. Sara didn't think that she herself was dangerous, so that meant that Cassandra must have felt there was "great need" to use the Voice on her a few months ago. Sara had to admit that standing petrified on the stairs had definitely gotten her attention, and had helped her to realize just how messed up she was.

Cassandra and Dad looked at each other for a moment, and then Cassandra stood and said to Sara, "Let's go talk to the girls."

"I'll erase this video then go see Erika," Dad said. On her way out the door Cassandra leaned over and kissed him.

Sara supposed she'd have to get used to that, too. As she and Cassandra walked down the stairs, Sara asked, "Do you always ask his permission to use the Voice?"

"Not at all," Cassandra said. "But considering your father has told me he'll take my head if he thinks I'm misusing it, I do like to have his approval."

* * *

><p>By eleven that evening, Cassandra had interviewed twelve girls, and Sara had deleted four more copies of the video. Cassandra sank down wearily on a chair in a small lounge off the hall. "We're lucky they're artists," Cassandra said. "They wanted to make it perfect before they shared it with anyone else." She leaned her head back against the stone wall and closed her eyes, her palm pressed to her forehead.<p>

"Headache?" Sara asked. "From using the Voice?"

Cassandra didn't want to move her head to nod. It felt as if an iron band were being slowly tightened just above her eyes, driving the nails deeper in."I'll be all right," she said. She took a few more deep breaths, pushing the pain away. Food would help, but for that she needed to get to her room. Cassandra opened her eyes and stood. She smiled at Sara. "Shall we?"

They had gone down two corridors before Sara asked the question Cassandra had been waiting for. "What did you say, to make him come back in your room?"

"I told him I had oatmeal," Cass answered.

"Oatmeal," Sara repeated dubiously.

"It was nearly ten o'clock and we were hungry, and he was going to bring us some food," Cassandra explained. "Then I remembered I had oatmeal. When I told him, he laughed and came back in."

"And you ate oatmeal for breakfast."

"Yes. With tea."

"Of course. And then...?"

"Then?" Cassandra repeated, deciding to put an end to some of this curiosity and prying into her private affairs. "We made love on the floor, and then we made love standing up. Then we went to lunch. Your father was hungry again," she explained.

Sara closed her mouth with a snap. "Sorry I asked," she muttered.

Cassandra nodded, satisfied.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Next: Duncan to the rescue<strong>_


	12. Chivalry

**The English Channel, January 2044**

* * *

><p>"MacLeod!" yelled Pierre, his voice just barely loud enough to be heard above the roar of the rotor blades above them. Jean-Paul was holding the helicopter steady above them, so that they could reach the man in the water, but the downwash was whipping the water to a white froth, and the salt-sea mist froze in tiny droplets on every surface, coating everything with slick ice.<p>

Duncan waited for the crest of the wave then tossed the end of the rope to Pierre, who snagged it from the air with his left hand. Duncan waited until Pierre had clipped the rope to his life preserver, then slowly and steadily pulled Pierre and his rescuee to the net. When they were close, Duncan hauled the rescue—a thin man in his twenties—into the seat and strapped him in. He was pale, but still shivering, a good sign. Then Duncan gave Pierre a quick hand in clambering on and checked all their harnesses before giving the crew waiting above the signal to winch them up.

The trip up into the helicopter was exhilarating, if freezing, and Duncan took the opportunity to enjoy the view. The gray waters of the Atlantic stretched to the horizon, save for the smudge to the north that was the coastline of England, and another smudge to the south that was France. The young man's boat was a pale yellow dot below them; its mast snapped in two.

Then they were in the helicopter, out of the frigid wind, and the doors were sliding shut, even as the craft tilted forward and Jean-Paul headed for home. Marie's fingers, warmer and more nimble than theirs, undid the icy buckles and helped them from the net. Ahmed immediately began checking the young man for injuries, and Marie pressed a cup of hot coffee into Duncan's numb hands. Pierre was cradling an identical mug, emblazoned with their company's logo: a pair of outstretched hands above the name Soteria, spelled out in blue letters.

They took the young man to hospital, where the medics said he would be fine. Then Duncan flew the crew back to the station, and they all piled out to clean up and get ready to go out again. "What kind of idiot takes a sailboat into the English Channel in January?" Pierre asked as he laid the rescue net flat on the floor.

"A nearly dead idiot," Marie answered, checking the net carefully for weak spots.

And a soon-to-be much poorer idiot, Duncan reflected. The bill for this rescue would be huge. But maybe the young man would be more careful next time. Duncan and Jean-Paul ran through the standard post-flight checklist, and then Jean-Paul went home, already two hours past the end of his shift. Duncan started refueling the helicopter, and Pierre and Marie placed the neatly folded net back aboard.

After filing his report and eating lunch with his friends, Duncan checked the day's reports for western Europe, skimming down the list: ship in distress, plane with an unconscious pilot, person overboard, small plane with engine failure, ship requesting medical assistance for a passenger…

Duncan stopped and went back to the plane with engine failure. He knew that registration number. Duncan pressed play on the distress call

"Mayday. Mayday. Mayday," a woman said, her English tinged with an Argentine accent. Duncan knew that voice, too – Elena Duran. Half a century ago, Duncan and Elena had been lovers for a few years. Duncan had left first, driven to wandering by grief over Richie's death and an emptiness nothing seemed to fill. In time, Duncan had healed, and within the decade, Duncan and Elena had each married a mortal. By unspoken agreement they'd carefully avoided each other since then, though Duncan had seen Elena's name in the news now and again; her husband's family was both well-to-do and well-known.

"Engines failed," Elena's voice continued. "Three onboard. Heading west. Landing on water between islands of Sardinia and Minorca. Mayday."

Her words were measured and clear, but Duncan heard the tension underneath. Elena's husband, Lorenzo Ponti, was probably flying. He might be able to set the plane down safely; the waves weren't too high today. Elena and her family could be rescued soon.

Duncan waited. Seventeen minutes later, forty-eight minutes after the original distress call, the report came in from the Barcelona station: "Site reached, plane already submerged, no emergency beacon, no survivors seen in water."

Even if she had died in the crash, Elena would survive. She might be trapped inside the plane at the bottom of the sea. She might be floating in the water with broken bones and internal injuries, or dying repeatedly from hypothermia. But unless she'd been decapitated in the crash, she would survive. Duncan was not going to leave her in the water.

He called Margot and asked if she could cover his shift, and he sent a message to Cassandra and told her he was going to look for Elena. Then Duncan went to see the station chief. "I need to leave," Duncan said. "Family emergency. Margot said she can be the pilot on call for the next few days."

The chief nodded, asked a few questions, and offered to help. Duncan thanked him and lied and finally got out the door. Duncan made a copy of the charts and the coordinates of the crash site then surreptitiously packed his diving gear. The suit cost half a million Euros and was supposed to stay onsite, but he needed it. He'd bring it back soon. Margot arrived as he was loading his car. Duncan gave Margot the standard change-of-shift briefing then headed for the airport.

* * *

><p>By the time he reached the isle of Minorca that evening, everything was closed, but in a bar near the docks he found a boat captain who was willing to go out early the next morning, for the right price. Duncan counted out the bills, then went to a hotel to sleep.<p>

In the predawn darkness on Sunday morning, the little boat chugged its way through quiet seas, while in the cabin, Duncan maneuvered himself into the different layers of his diving suit. The captain shook his head, saying, "The water is very cold, señor."

"Special gear," Duncan said as he adjusted the collar seal. Duncan's crew had finished their training for these new suits only a few months ago. Not as bulky or as buoyant as a space suit, it was designed for pressure instead of vacuum, and it would maintain his body temperature for an hour even in waters as cold as these. Luckily, the crash had happened near the shore, so the plane wouldn't be too deep. Otherwise, he would have had to rent a submarine.

They arrived at the ditching site just after dawn. Duncan set his receiver to the frequency of the plane's emergency transponder then checked his tanks and put on his helmet. The captain shook his head again when Duncan went over the side. Below the surface, darkness still reigned. Duncan flicked on the headlamp and started going down. The beeping of the transponder grew stronger, guiding him, and after a long, cold descent, he could see the dim outline of the plane. The craft was on its side, one wing crumpled. Duncan didn't bother to try to open its door or go inside; if Elena had been inside he would have sensed her presence. She wasn't there.

Duncan headed for the surface, taking his time to let the pressure equalize. Small waves lapped at his face plate and over his shoulders when he finally reached the top. He radioed the captain, and the boat chugged toward him. The captain shook his head again as he helped Duncan into the boat. Back in the cabin and out of his diving gear, Duncan gratefully drank the hot coffee from the thermos. Even with his fancy suit, that water was damn cold.

As they headed for shore, he called his hotel and asked them for information about helicopter tours. By noon, he was in the air, scanning the waters with eyes and immortal senses as the pilot flew back and forth in a search pattern. After five hours and two refuelings, they had to stop. Nightfall came early in winter.

Duncan stood on the city dock, staring at the shimmering reflection of lights on black water. Elena's plane had gone down thirty hours ago. In water this cold, thirty minutes was enough to kill. He'd gotten here as fast as he could and done everything he could, and he still couldn't find her.

He pulled out his phone and called Cassandra. "No," she said. "No word." Elena was still lost in that frigid water, in the darkness, dying over and over, alone. Duncan would search again tomorrow, starting at dawn.

He climbed the steep hill from the harbor to his hotel, showered and took a nap, then went walking the town and found a restaurant in a white stucco building. At a nearby table, Italians with expensive camera gear were talking of the Ponti plane crash and speculating about why the plane had gone down. The paparazzi were already in town.

Duncan ate an excellent seafood dinner and was about to order a dessert when he caught the whisper touch of an immortal walking by. Perhaps Elena had made it to land? Or perhaps this was an immortal's home town.

And perhaps an immortal had come hunting. Elena would be seen as easy prey.

Duncan dropped bills on the table and started searching, on land this time. After a frustrating two hours of cat-and-mouse through narrow alleys, wider streets, and the occasional open plaza, he finally zeroed in on the other immortal coming out of the bus station in the center of town. Duncan followed him to the park on the other side of the street.

"I'm Duncan MacLeod of the clan MacLeod," Duncan said pleasantly when they were about five paces apart. In the yellowish light of the distant street lamp, it was hard to judge age, but the other man had no hair. He was shorter than Duncan, but not by much.

"Josef Kivitsky," the other replied, not so pleasantly. "Do you live on this island?"

"No. Do you?"

"No. Are you visiting friends? Or hunting?"

Duncan smiled tightly. "Searching."

"For Elena Duran," Kivitsky said with a nod. "I arrived here yesterday afternoon from Monaco, only two hours after her plane went down, and I've been waiting for her to reach land ever since. I got here first, so I have first claim to her head. Leave."

Duncan almost smiled at the other's arrogance. "It doesn't work like that."

"I say it does." Kivitsky pushed back his dark green coat, revealing the hilt of his sword.

At least it wasn't a gun. "We don't have to fight," Duncan said, already evaluating the terrain. Tall trees surrounded a level grassy space that was dominated by an obelisk atop stone steps. This late at night in the dead of winter, no one else was outside, and the surrounding buildings were commercial, not residential. They were unlikely to be interrupted. "You stop hunting Duran," Duncan offered, "you keep your head."

In answer, Kivitsky drew his sword.

"Don't do this," Duncan warned once more, but when Kivitsky started toward him, Duncan drew his katana. They circled each other twice, then Kivitsky attacked. He was a decent but unimaginative swordsman, and Duncan ended the first bout by drawing blood with a slice to Kivitsky's upper arm. "Walk away," Duncan said as they circled each other again. "I don't want your head."

"I want yours," snarled Kivitsky and attacked with a flurry of blows that left them both panting. Their breath came out in puffs of white fog. Then they both froze, sensing another immortal just within range. Duncan wondered if it were a local immortal, another hunter, or had Elena made it to shore? And if so, had Kivitsky actually been hunting her all evening?

Duncan banished those thoughts for now and kept his attention on his opponent with the naked blade. Kivitsky glanced over his shoulder then attacked again.

Duncan just wanted this to be over. He drove the other man away from the open space near the obelisk to a place where deep shadows lay beneath the trees. Then Duncan finished the fight with brutal efficiency, slicing the tendon behind the knee so that Kivitsky went down. Kivitsky kept his sword up, trying to maintain a defense while his leg healed, but Duncan simply circled behind him to deliver the final fatal blow. The head fell with a muffled thump onto dead leaves, and the body crumpled to the ground. More fog rose from the warm spilled blood. Duncan stood with teeth gritted, arms upraised and katana in hand, bracing himself for the storm of lightning to come.

The Quickening blasted through him and drove him to his knees, and when it was over the scent of burning leaves hung in the air, like a pleasant autumn day. He also caught a whiff of melted plastic; he'd lost another phone. The next one he bought would be ceramic. He immediately got to his feet, preparing to fight again, but there was no trace of the unknown immortal, and Duncan breathed a sigh that mingled relief and disappointment. Elena would have stayed.

Duncan left the body and its head where they lay. He had no way to get them out of the city, and touching anything would just leave traces of himself behind. He did take the other man's sword.

Then Duncan walked the nearby streets, searching, but sensed nothing. The other immortal, whoever it was, had probably gone to bed. It was dark, it was cold, and it was two in the morning. Duncan went back to his hotel room and used the phone there.

It was picked up on the second ring. "Hello."

"Connor," Duncan said in greeting.

"Duncan," his kinsman replied then said, "Elena made land."

"Thank God," Duncan said, closing his eyes in relief and shuddering even though the room was warm. "That water is damn cold."

"We've been trying to call you," Connor told him.

"My phone got fried," Duncan explained.

"Ah," Connor said in understanding.

He didn't ask who, and Duncan didn't volunteer. Mentioning recent murder victims by name on an open phone line wasn't smart. Duncan snorted in disgust. "He told me that since he got to the island first, he had priority."

"Bald?" Connor asked.

And just how did Connor know that? "Yeah," Duncan said.

"Elena called just after midnight and told us she was being 'followed' by a_ pelon,_" Connor explained.

So Kivitsky had lied. Not exactly a surprise.

"There could be others," Connor warned.

Other people 'following', more immortals hunting. "I know," Duncan said. The Ponti plane crash was all over the news. "Where was she?"

"She called from _Estación de Autobuses de Mahón_," Connor told Duncan.

Duncan had been at that same bus station, which meant it had been Elena he'd sensed during the fight. She must not have recognized him. Maybe she'd left before the fight was even over? But that wasn't like her; Elena was just like a cat: both curious and stubborn. Duncan said carefully, "I'm surprised we haven't run into each other yet."

"I think she's defenseless," Connor said next.

Which meant she didn't have a sword. Duncan swore softly, but now he understood why she'd run. Elena was also smart. She wouldn't linger if she couldn't fight. "I'll find her," Duncan said. He'd start checking the churches; unarmed immortals usually went to Holy Ground.

Then Cassandra came on the line, and Duncan briefly wondered if they were in Connor's bed or hers. "Duncan, stay in touch," she said. "Elena should call me soon, if she's all right. I'll tell her the name of your hotel."

"Thank you," Duncan said. It would help a lot if Elena were looking for him, instead of trying to hide.

Duncan took a quick shower then called for a cab. He sat in the back seat and took a tour of all the cemeteries and places of worship: twelve churches (almost all Catholic), two temples (one Gaian and one Mormon), two synagogues, and one mosque. At each one, he got out of the cab and called Elena's name, while the cab driver whistled tunelessly. Elena never answered. Around dawn, Duncan returned to his hotel room once more.

A message from Cassandra was waiting: "Duncan, I told Elena you were on the island, but she was already at the airport, on her way to a convent in France. I think she needs some time alone, to grieve."

Duncan understood that, all too well.

"She said she'd be in touch soon," Cassandra said then wished him well and said goodbye.

So, Elena didn't need rescuing after all. But perhaps killing Kivitsky had helped to keep her alive. Duncan looked longingly at the bed, but a decapitated body lay only a few blocks away. It was best to leave town.

The airport was crowded with families returning for the traditional festival of St. Joseph, plus more paparazzi arriving. From the chatter around him, Duncan learned that Elena's grown son, Marcello Ponti, was planning to salvage the plane so that he could bury his mother, his father, and his grandmother in their family crypt in Rome. Duncan knew that one of those coffins would be empty; Elena was still very much alive.

Duncan slept on the flight back and went to bed early, too. On Tuesday he was back at work, the dive suit safely returned. He told Margot he'd take her and her husband out to dinner soon.

"How's your cousin?" asked the station chief.

"She pulled through," Duncan said with a happy smile. Then a distress call came in, and the rescue crew headed out to sea once more.

* * *

><p>The next morning, he checked his messages and found the scan of a handwritten note from Elena.<p>

_"Duncan, thank you so much for coming to help me in Menorca. You saved my life! and I appreciate your love and friendship very much. I know I can always count on you. I'm here in Austria with Cassandra being still for a while, mourning, and trying to accept Lorenzo's death and the death of Elena Duran-Ponti. I'm sure I'll see you again soon. Gracias, che."_

It was signed only with her first name, the letters bold and dramatic, just like her.

So much for the convent in France. Well, Elena had always been one to change her mind, and at the school in Austria she would have other immortals to talk to. Cassandra and Connor understood how hard it was to walk away from a life and from the people you love.

And Cassandra had obviously told Elena that Duncan had been the one fighting Kivitsky. Duncan was glad to know he had helped, and pleased to know Elena appreciated it. He called the florist in the village near the school. "We have lavender plants, but they are not yet in bloom," the woman told him. "I have a lovely ceramic bowl I can repot it in, to add color."

"That's perfect," Duncan said. To everything, there was a season, and it was winter still. The flowers would come in time.

Duncan read the letter twice more before he saved it in his files then headed to work. Elena sent him a thank-you note for the plant that evening, and after that, he heard nothing more.

* * *

><p>Connor called him a week later. They talked about the new helicopter blades coming out and a recent book on the history of the Civil War, then traded news of their kind. "Any more shootings?" Duncan asked.<p>

"One. Just before Christmas in Spain."

"They're happening all over the planet. Every … five years?"

"It's erratic, both time and place," Connor told him. "No pattern we can see. The Watchers don't have leads, either. So says Cassandra's spy."

"Send me all the files," Duncan said. "I'm going to take another look."

Connor nodded then mentioned, "Elena and I have been giving demonstrations to the students with different weapons. Not easy going against a leftie."

"It is a challenge," Duncan agreed. "Especially with Elena. She's hard to predict."

"In everything," Connor observed.

"How's she doing?" Duncan asked.

"Better. She's leaving here tomorrow, going to Basel in Switzerland to see a lawyer, then to Rome to visit her husband's grave. His funeral is tomorrow."

Having publicly died, Elena could not attend her husband's funeral or comfort her only son. She was completely cut off from her former life, and she was completely alone. "Thanks for letting me know," Duncan replied.

He met Elena at the train station in Basel, and she greeted him with a surprised smile and a quick touch of a gloved hand, quite unlike her usual exuberant hugs. But her grief was an unbreachable wall between them, and Duncan did not try to touch her at all. He was there as a friend, to stand by her side.

So he waited while Elena visited a lawyer and banker and settled some of her affairs. He took her out to dinner that night. They talked, and they listened, and when, hours later, Elena told Duncan, "I've always loved you. I would never have left Lorenzo, or betrayed him, but the fact is I love you, since that first day and forever," Duncan wasn't surprised.

"_Querida,_" he called to her softly,_ Beloved_, and Elena closed her eyes and blinked back tears. "I love you, too," he told her, and they smiled with a promise of love to come—someday.

The next morning on the train to Rome, Elena said, "Duncan, about what we said to each other last night… I meant it."

"Me, too," Duncan said.

"But now's not the time. You understand?"

Duncan did. Elena needed to grieve. She needed to rage and to weep and to curse the very earth and sky. He stood next to her again while she wept at her husband's grave and then from a distance watched her son, who was walking into a restaurant with his fiancée.

"At least Marcellino has Angelina," Elena said. "He won't be alone."

Duncan and Elena said farewell that night at the airport: she to Australia to go walk-about, he back to his search-and-rescue job in Caen.

Duncan didn't have any luck figuring out the shooter, though he went to a few places and investigated some more. On the phone, Methos was unhelpful and not very interested. "It's not that unusual, MacLeod, nor exactly new. There's a whole slew in the chronicles of 'death by arrow then by sword'."

"Can you send me that list?" Duncan asked, but Methos said no. Cassandra said yes, when Duncan asked her, but he still couldn't tell who the assassin was.

As spring was beginning to show, Cassandra sent a lavender plant to him, potted in a lovely ceramic bowl. "Last year, Elena asked me to take care of this while she traveled," the note said. "She's ready for it now."

When Elena arrived on his doorstep five days later—thin but very fit, dark from the sun and with a halo of glorious black hair—Duncan once again gave that lavender plant, a symbol of devotion, to Elena.

"It's about to bloom," she said, inhaling deeply, her fingers gently encircling the slender green stalks. "But how did Cassandra know when to send it? I didn't tell anyone I was coming."

"She is a witch," Duncan said with a shrug. He'd long ago given up trying to figure out how Cassandra knew what she knew. "Coffee?" he offered Elena, and they sat in his small courtyard and listened to the eager springtime courtship of the birds.

"This is a good time for me, right?" Elena asked. "There is no one else?"

Duncan shook his head. "I've been waiting for you."

Elena smiled and reached for his hand, and when he kissed her, she told him, "I love you," and he called her "_Querida_," once again.

The next morning, they planted the lavender outside in the courtyard, and it bloomed that very day. It grew magnificently all that summer, and when in the autumn they brought it back inside, they needed to get a larger bowl. After the winter, spring came again, and again in the courtyard, the lavender bloomed.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Next: Cassandra goes with Elena on a hunting trip<strong>_


	13. Timeless

**St. Anne's Academy in London, 15 April 2046**

* * *

><p>"Thank the Lady you're here, Laina!" Zoelle said, rushing over when Cassandra walked into the common room at St. Anne's Academy, the London campus of the Phinyx schools. "I haven't been able to reach Claudia Jardine for two days, and the police aren't doing anything!"<p>

"Please, tell me what's happened," Cassandra said, drawing the other woman by the arm to sit next to her on a sofa in the corner.

Zoelle took a breath and settled down a little. "You know that Peter Shaw has been sponsoring Claudia for almost five years, ever since her manager Walter Graham died that horrible way." Zoelle shuddered. "Why would anyone want to chop off a head?"

Cassandra didn't bother to explain.

"Two months ago," Zoelle went on, "Claudia was saying that London was too loud and too busy, what with everyone getting ready for Princess Elizabeth's wedding, and she couldn't possibly practice enough for the concert she's supposed to give for the duke, and then Mr. Shaw said she could live in his house up near Edinburgh, and she went there the next day, and I haven't seen her since."

"Have you heard from her at all?"

"Oh, yes, her recordings of her practice sessions arrive every day, and I sort and archive them. Sometimes she calls or send me notes, things for me to do. I used to buy clothes for her when I first started three years ago, but lately Mr. Shaw has been picking them out and buying them."

Yet another sign of a potentially abusive relationship, Cassandra knew. Choosing her clothes, screening her calls, inviting her to live with him for safety… all done with the most helpful of intentions, of course. That was one way it often began: being kept isolated and dependent, either in a cage or a tent of skins or in a luxurious cocoon. It didn't matter. The goal was the same: ownership and control.

Cassandra had warned Claudia Jardine about Shaw three years ago, when Cassandra had met the two of them after a concert in Paris. Shaw had hovered next to Claudia, his hand on her arm, his eyes possessive under a façade of cultured charm. In the privacy of the women's bathroom, Cassandra had suggested to Claudia that perhaps letting Peter Shaw be that close to her was not a good idea.

Claudia had laughed off the concerns, even when Cassandra had said: "Some people want your body. Many immortals want your head. But some people—and they are much more dangerous—want your soul. They want to be in control."

"Nobody controls me," Claudia had snapped. "And nobody tells me what to do. Not Peter. And not you." Then she had swept Cassandra with an imperious glance and swept out of the room.

Cassandra had closed her eyes and sighed, wishing she had handled that better and that Claudia hadn't been so young. The next week she had gone to the Phinyx music school, looked for a likely candidate and found Zoelle, then suggested that a job might be found with the noted musician Claudia Jardine.

And now Claudia was missing. Perhaps Peter Shaw had decided he wanted something from Claudia after all.

"I have a recording of Claudia's practice session where you can hear them talking," Zoelle said next. "The police said it didn't prove anything. Would you like to see it?

"Yes," Cassandra said, and Zoelle handed her a memory chip for her phone.

"I can't watch it again," Zoelle said with a shudder. "I'll be in the dining room."

Cassandra unwrapped her phone from her wrist then fed it the chip and set it to private sound. The field of view on the small screen was limited to piano keys and pedals, and the first fifteen minutes had Claudia's exquisite rendition of all three movements of Beethoven's fourteenth sonata. Cassandra watched the graceful hands dance across the keys, bringing forth whispers and cascades and ultimately torrents of passionate sound.

Then Shaw spoke. He complimented Claudia's playing then sat next to her, his pale hands large and awkward next to hers. He played a little of the piece himself (technically excellent, but emotionally flat), then he placed his hand over hers and suggested they become lovers.

"Peter…," she said, and then nothing more.

After a moment, he asked, "Surely this isn't a surprise?" but it seemed to be, for Claudia politely turned him down. There was a long silence. "You're sure, my dear?" Shaw said.

"Yes."

Shaw let go of her hands, murmuring, "Pity."

"I'm sorry," Claudia said again.

"So am I," he said, and his hands and feet disappeared from view.

Claudia began to play again then stopped abruptly when his footsteps returned. "Peter?' she asked, then suddenly she too was out of view. Only her voice could be heard, rising in fear. "Peter… no…"

"Surely this isn't a surprise," Shaw's voice replied.

Cassandra listened grimly to the sharp click of Claudia's heels as she ran across a wooden floor, followed by Shaw's measured heavy tread. In the distance, a sharp scream was followed by a sodden thud. An awful silence filled the room, then a quickening shattered the quiet and ghost-white light flickered across the piano keys as Shaw devoured Claudia's soul.

Cassandra watched the lights die away.

Shaw came back to the piano, sat down, and played Beethoven's fourteenth sonata. This time, he played brilliantly, with the same exuberant fire and joy Claudia had always had.

Exactly the same. Precisely the same. Shaw had taken her talent along with her life.

Cassandra watched that part of the recording again then removed the chip and joined Zoelle in the dining room. In the middle of the day, they had it to themselves.

"You see what I mean?" Zoelle asked plaintively. "It's creepy. But the police aren't even looking. Mr. Shaw told them that he came back to propose to Claudia and when she saw the engagement ring she ran off and tripped and fell and then his electrical transformer blew up. He said that in the middle of the night she got all artist-moody and took off, and her car and all her clothes are gone, so they believe him. They did say they'd keep an on eye on him, and to let them know as soon as I hear from Claudia. If I do." Her voice grew very small. "I'm afraid to go back to my flat. Mr. Shaw must know who went to the cops with a recording like that, and if he did do something to her…"

"You can stay here," Cassandra said immediately, patting Zoelle's hand reassuringly. "Or at any Phinyx school anywhere in the world. You know that."

"Once a sister, always a sister," Zoelle agreed.

Cassandra helped Zoelle get settled then called Connor and told him that Shaw had taken Jardine's head. "Would you bring your files on Shaw to London?" Cassandra asked. "And any others from the archives?"

"Yes. Have you told Duncan?"

"Not yet. He'll want Shaw, won't he?"

"Yes. But so does Elena Duran. Shaw beat her husband up over the some unpaid gambling debts forty years ago."

"Can she take him?" Cassandra asked.

"Yes."

Cassandra immediately revised her plan. "I'll let her know."

"Anything else I should bring?" Connor asked.

"Just yourself," she replied, filling those two words with longing and lust, for she'd been in London all this last week for the royal wedding."I miss you."

She loved how his smile started at his eyes. "I'll see you tomorrow," he promised, and Cassandra shivered deliciously at all his words implied.

* * *

><p>Connor arrived early the next day, and after their enthusiastic reunion, he went to register at the convention of metallurgical engineers. Cassandra settled on the bed to read. The first file was from a genealogy service, tracing the Shaw family to the late 1600s. Cassandra read enough to see Shaw's pattern: years of service in the British army overseas, then the dead officer's "son" returned to the family estate in the south of Scotland, occasionally married a widow and raised a family, and finally went overseas to see the lands of his youth one last time. Twenty or thirty years later, another young Shaw would return. The first Peter Shaw listed had served under the Duke of Cumberland and fought at the Battle of Culloden.<p>

At the end of the report was a comment in Connor's small, precise handwriting: "A typical British officer of his time." That, Cassandra knew, was not a compliment. Connor had followed it with "Sees himself as a man of honor, won't cheat at the Game," which was good to know.

The next file was a report from an Edinburgh detective agency, paid for by Connor in 2001. Cassandra studied the picture of Shaw: about thirty, bluish eyes, brownish hair, average looking. Shaw was right-handed, almost as tall as Duncan and a little lighter in weight. Shaw was a patron of the arts and gave generously to local charities. "A keen farmer and well-respected by his tenants," the report said. He grew roses and had won numerous prizes, especially for the Amelia Bryce cultivar. He frequented brothels that catered to the S&M crowd, but never close to home, only in London or out of the country.

The third file bore the symbol of the Watchers, a stylized V surrounded by a ring of thirteen black dots. Cassandra had downloaded quite a few of their files before Watcher HQ had been blown up in 2014. Duncan's friend –and Watcher—Joe Dawson had died in that attack, and the company had gone bankrupt soon after. Cassandra hadn't spotted a Watcher in the field in decades.

She flipped through old chronicles, reading here and there. Shaw's adopted daughter, Amelia Bryce Shaw, eleven years old, had died in 1822. He'd served with Lord Baden-Powell during the Boer War then returned home and started one of the first Scout troops in the land. He'd won the Victoria Cross twice, along with numerous other decorations, but such bravery wasn't quite so noteworthy in someone who knew he couldn't die. His last military tour had ended in 1974, about the time they'd starting letting women in.

The final Watcher page listed Shaw's kills from the years 1784 to 2009. Twenty-seven names were on that list. Walter Graham was another likely victim, and he and Claudia brought the total to twenty-nine.

Cassandra stood and stretched then went to stare out the window. It seemed as though the complete transference of Claudia's power was an anomaly, since Shaw had shown no evidence of such abrupt changes before. The musical ability would probably fade soon. Even so, Peter Shaw needed to die.

Cassandra called Elena and asked if she could come to London. "I'll be there by dinnertime," Elena promised. Cassandra knew that Elena's chances of defeating Shaw were good, but it was always wise to have a backup plan, so Cassandra made a few more calls.

* * *

><p>After Elena arrived that night, she and Connor watched the video, and Elena promptly volunteered for the job. Cassandra went with her the next day to Edinburgh, dug the grave, then waited nearby while Elena chopped off Shaw's head.<p>

"You don't fight, do you?" Elena asked as they shoveled the dirt on top of the body.

"Quickenings give me nightmares for years, sometimes decades," Cassandra told her. "Even when I'm not asleep." The voices of the dead whispered at the back of her mind. "Everyone is much safer if I'm sane."

"Yeah," Elena agreed fervently.

"And with Shaw…" Cassandra tossed a shovelful of dirt on his head. "If he had beheaded me, he might have acquired the power of the Voice." A remote chance, but still possible. "I couldn't let that happen."

"So you recruited me to kill him."

"I asked," Cassandra pointed out. "You volunteered."

"I did, didn't I?" Elena looked quite pleased with herself. The feet were covered before she asked, "What if I had lost?"

Cassandra paused, balancing a shovelful of dirt on the blade, and looked at Elena to say, "Then now I would be weeping as I buried a friend."

Elena glanced at the grave and the pile of dirt before asking, "But about Shaw?"

"I would have gone to plan B."

"Duncan," Elena guessed.

Cassandra didn't bother to correct her. They finished the job and walked to the car. "They're addicting, you know," Cassandra said quietly as they walked through the darkening wood. "The quickenings."

"I'm not addicted," Elena replied, a little too quickly.

"I am," Cassandra told her, trying to help the younger woman see. "And so is Methos. That's why we avoid them as much as we can."

"You said that quickenings make you crazy," Elena pointed out, "that you hear voices."

"I do, for years," Cassandra agreed. "And I'm ill for days afterwards. But even so, I still crave that power." She swallowed, remembering the slick taste of blood, salty and warm. She could, she knew, kill Elena right now. She could tell people that Shaw had won, and that she had then killed Shaw. She could use the Voice to order the other woman to her knees. She could kiss those moist red lips, licking up the lust that was surging through Elena's veins right now. She could twine her fingers through those rich black curls, slowly pulling back the head to expose the softness of the throat. Then she could take Elena's sword, slice off her head, and feast on her soul.

Cassandra dug her nails into her palms, using that pain to help shudder herself free from the hunger. She opened the door in her mind and forced herself to listen to the screams of the people she had already killed, to let the voices gibber in her ears. She also stepped away from Elena, away from the scents of blood and sweat and lust.

When Cassandra was calm again, she mused, "Resisting must be even harder for Methos." Quickenings didn't make him ill. "He does very well."

Elena looked at her, probably surprised to hear anything good about that man from her. Cassandra warned, "Be careful, Elena, of the heads you take and the souls you consume. Because I can tell you, it is not good to need to kill someone simply in order to feel alive."

"I don't," Elena said. "I've never killed lightly, and less so now. So don't worry that I will go challenging someone because I'm bored, or because I want power. OK?"

Cassandra didn't disagree, even though Elena had already done exactly that. Oh, she'd had other reasons, too; she wasn't going after innocents. But Elena was an adrenaline junkie, and quickenings were the ultimate rush. The sex was addicting, too, and Cassandra knew Elena could easily move into the hunger phase, taking heads at random and justifying it by the Game. So could Connor and Duncan. All of them needed watching. As did she, as did they all. But for now, Cassandra simply said, "OK."

Elena went on, "The truth is, _amiga_, you need not have worried about Shaw taking my 'abilities,' or yours, or anyone else's, for that matter."

"Except Claudia's," Cassandra pointed out.

"Well, he wanted to take Claudia's music, but he didn't; it took him. Her genius just poured out onto him, overwhelmed him. And I've got it now."

Cassandra nodded, relieved to hear that Shaw hadn't been special and that complete transference wasn't likely to happen again. A talent like Claudia's was extremely rare.

But if a skill could be passed along through two quickenings, perhaps there was a way to retrieve even more…

* * *

><p><strong>Akademie der Sankte Hildegard, 1 May 2046<strong>

* * *

><p>"Grading papers?" Connor asked as he came into Cassandra's office, for she was sitting motionless and holding a pencil level between two fingers in her upraised hand, a sure sign of concentration.<p>

She looked up from the computer and smiled merrily for him, but then looked down and grew somber. "Updating files."

He went to stand behind her, enjoying the feel of her hair as it brushed against his hands and the warmth of her body against his thighs. The page on the screen was titled Peter Shaw, and it held a list of his kills, thirty-four in all. Walter Graham (1158- 2038), Laslo Chaban (1826 - 2043), and Claudia Jardine (1969-13 April 2046) were the last three. The list ended with the notation "Shaw beheaded by Elena Duran on 17 April 2046."

"Elena said Shaw boasted he had killed eight people while he was 'protecting' Graham and Claudia Jardine," Cassandra said. "I've been going through the chronicles, and I think I've just found the fifth." She pointed with the pencil to the twenty-ninth name on Shaw's kill-list: Ben Shekhawat (1975-2011). A question mark followed his name, the sign of an unconfirmed kill.

"He didn't last long," Connor observed.

"Most don't." Cassandra twisted to look up at him. "Any other updates?"

"Warren Cochrane is dead. April sixteenth. Culloden Field, Scotland."

As she began to add that entry she asked, "Do you know who?"

"Warren Cochrane."

She looked up, her mouth open slightly in surprise. "How ever did he manage that?"

"Rigged up a guillotine."

"On the three hundredth anniversary of that battle." She nodded once, slowly. "Survivor's guilt is a heavy load."

It was.

"Another beheading-by-gun was found last week," she told him next. "Canada this time."

"That makes seven since that one in Fiji seventeen years ago," he said grimly. "That we know about."

"There could be more," she agreed. "And even Sara's new algorithm isn't helping me see any patterns. Different guns on different continents, with almost no leads since quickenings tend to destroy evidence."

Connor thought about what they did know. "Quickenings mean immortals are involved, not Watchers gone bad."

"Five of the dead were men," Cassandra offered, "and all seven were aggressive headhunters."

"Not exactly a distinguishing characteristic," Connor observed. "Could be a headhunter taking out his competition."

"Or a non-headhunter taking out predators. Or simply individual instances, like Sofie in Ireland that Duncan told us about."

"Great," Connor said. "That means seven immortals out there using guns, instead of just one."

"And hundreds with swords," Cassandra pointed out.

Connor shrugged. That was normal.

Cassandra starting clicking the keys to save and close the lists of kills. More titles flashed by: Ceirdwyn, Felicia Martin, Connor MacLeod…

Connor didn't need to see the headcount on that page.

Cassandra saved the encrypted files to the flipdrive, shut down the program, and wiped the computer's working memory. Then she stood to lock the flipdrive in the safe. "Do you miss it?" Cassandra asked him suddenly, for only five names had been added to his kill list in the last fifty years, and four of those had been decades ago.

"Some," he admitted. "But I promised Alex I wouldn't fight unless I absolutely had to, not while our children are still alive." Cassandra nodded and quietly shut the safe door.

Connor went to her and held out his hands, for he had not come to her on this day to speak of killing and of swords. "It's May Day," he said softly, looking into her eyes. "Come to the woods with me."

Her smile was merry once again, and she placed her hands in his and said, "Yes."

* * *

><p><em><strong>Next: Duncan suffers from unwanted exposure<strong>_

* * *

><p><em><strong>Note: The Peter Shaw story is told from Elena's point of view in the story "Elena's Journey", also available on this site.<br>**_


	14. Deadly Exposures

**Caen, France, May 2046**

* * *

><p>Duncan and Elena kissed goodbye one morning, heading off to work like any other couple, he to the station, she to a nearby family riding stable to help train a young racehorse. It was a day like a hundred others… until he died.<p>

Duncan was working the rescue net that day instead of flying, since Ahmed was sick with the flu. Margot held the helicopter in position, and the rescue was going well, two people off the sinking boat in heavy seas, only one more to go.

But— "There's my husband!" the British woman shouted over the noise of the helicopter blades as Duncan checked her safety harness. Duncan turned to see a heavy-set man emerging from the hatch. The man struggled across the tilted deck, clinging to whatever handhold he could find. Duncan strapped him in next, then signaled Margot to take them up. The rescue net had room only for two.

And the helicopter had barely enough fuel to get home, especially overloaded as it was.

Margot hovered, hesitating, wasting precious fuel, while Duncan urgently signaled her to go. Finally, Pierre pushed out a life raft, and it landed in the water, not too far away. Duncan tightened his life jacket and leapt off the boat, swimming hard in the direction of the raft, battling both the waves of the sea and the downwash of the chopper before Margot moved off to one side. By the time he reached the raft, his hands and limbs were already numb with cold. It took him three tries to haul himself into the slippery raft, then he waved furiously once again for Margot to go home.

Pierre waved back as the chopper tilted nose down and headed for shore, its blades beating the air.

As the silence grew, Duncan could hear the heavy slap of waves against the hull of the sinking boat and the hiss of approaching rain. He would be rescued, he knew. Too bad their second chopper was down for repairs. But their fellow stations at Portsmouth or Calais would help. All he had to do was wait.

Duncan wrung out as much water as he could from his clothes then watched the boat sink. Hard cold drops of rain began to spatter his face, and Duncan huddled under the raft's tarp. The rain fell in grey sheets, and the waves surged and heaved. He tied himself down then grasped the ropes along the side of the raft grimly, his hands aching with the cold.

All he had to do was wait. And hang on.

When the storm finally subsided and the rescue helicopter arrived, its crew found nothing but a capsized empty lifeboat atop the white-topped waves.

* * *

><p>After a painful eternity of dark water, Duncan woke to a grey light and Elena smiling down at him. He tried to smile back, but his face felt stiff, like badly cured leather. His hands still ached, his fingers curled so tightly that his nails dug into his palms. Oddly, though, he couldn't feel his toes. He tried to speak, but his tongue was swollen and his lips were cracked. He was shuddering with cold.<p>

"Sleep," she told him, her voice quiet above a steady hum of engines. "You're safe now."

Duncan gratefully slipped back into the darkness, and his hands finally let go.

* * *

><p>"Two days," Elena told him, after he'd woken in an English hotel room, eaten, washed, and eaten again. "You were in the water two days, longer than me after my plane crash." She shuddered, obviously remembering, and Duncan shuddered too. She smiled at him reassuringly and said, "I rented a boat and started searching for you as soon as the storm died down. Connor and Cassandra had boats of their own. With three of us, we could triangulate. I found you seventeen hours ago then brought you to this village. The immigration official was very understanding."<p>

"And Connor?" Duncan asked.

"He and Cassandra went back to their school in Austria," Elena said. "Something about exams. Oh, and I have your sword here. I picked up your car and got the sword from the trunk."

"Thank you," Duncan said, then told Elena what she had once told him: "I know I can always count on you."

Her smile was brilliant with love, even as her eyes were brilliant with tears, and Duncan took her by the hand and led her to the bed then showed his gratitude in other ways.

He woke to a darkness broken by the glitter of stars, with Elena warm by his side. At sunrise, they went to the balcony and looked out at the sea, gray and silver in the early morning light. "Your memorial service is Friday," she said. "I told Pierre and Margot I'd be there."

Duncan grimaced. He had hoped to keep his identity and his job a while longer. "No chance of a miraculous rescue at sea?"

"After a storm like that and days in the water?" Elena asked. She shook her head. "Too many questions, from too many people. A lot of people."

Duncan shrugged. "Who would care?"

"Oh, about half of Europe," Elena said with a grin. "You died a hero, and you're all over the news." She turned on her phone and showed him the video one of the rescuees had made. It was shaky and blurry, thank God, so his face was obscured. Even so, the voiceover clearly identified him as "Duncan MacLeod, a rescue pilot employed by Soterion" and the picture they'd dug up from his personnel file was clear. The video narrated his "daring rescue" and "noble self-sacrifice" as he waved for the helicopter to leave him behind in "treacherous and deadly seas." An interview with Pierre followed, and he said there was talk of naming the station after "the intrepid Duncan MacLeod."

"Damn it," Duncan swore. He hadn't been ready to die.

* * *

><p>The next day, Elena left for France for his memorial service. Duncan stayed in England, taking long walks, letting his hair and beard grow, and avoiding the news. She returned a few days later, bringing with her a suitcase of his belongings, including his extra set of ID. At least he hadn't had to leave everything behind.<p>

"Amanda sent flowers to your memorial service," Elena reported, taking a seat on the bed as he sorted through the suitcase. "An enormous bouquet of red roses."

Duncan resorted to his standard response whenever a current lover mentioned another lover. "Oh," he said, with no surprise or excitement or irritation or anything at all that might be construed as the slightest bit of interest in the lover who wasn't there, and he kept right on sorting papers and books.

Elena, thankfully, let it go, saying next, "People said very nice things about you. And so did I."

Duncan stopped sorting and leaned over to kiss her and say, "Thank you."

She flashed him a mischievous grin. "I told them the interesting stories at the wake."

"At least Duncan MacLeod won't ever have to face them again," he said, picking up his new passport. It held his picture, but it was made out in the name of Justin Morris, a native of New Zealand who'd moved to England eight years ago.

"And Justin Morris won't ever meet them," Elena noted.

Duncan nodded soberly. "Duncan MacLeod should stay dead in Europe for fifty years. Maybe a hundred." She was quiet, and he stood and wrapped his arms around her, closing his eyes as he buried his face in her glossy hair. It was past her shoulders now. "Where would you like to go?" he asked softly, as they had asked each other before, and would again.

"Back to France," she said, pulling back to look at him. "Look, the race is in four months, and Mignone –oh, she's almost ready! She could win it, with just a bit more training, and I—"

"And you want to train her," Duncan said. "And go to the race with her."

"I promised Henri and Lucille," Elena said. "It's just a few months. I could still use your house."

"Yes, you could," Duncan agreed. The rent was paid until June, and their landlady wouldn't mind if Elena stayed a few more months.

Elena smiled. "After that…"

He kissed her lightly on the forehead, then more firmly on the mouth. "After that," he agreed, leaving the details for another day. They would meet again—somehow, somewhere—he knew.

* * *

><p>She left three days later, and two days after that, Duncan received a sachet of dried lavender. He inhaled the crisp, clean scent, remembering the way the plant had bloomed magnificently in the courtyard of his home. Then he slipped the sachet into his suitcase and left the room.<p>

Justin Morris was a man of no fixed address with no particular place to go. But there was plenty to see, and plenty of time. He walked the Hadrian Wall in England and took a tour boat down the Rhine. He visited Rome then went south and looked at Vesuvius again, smoking slightly in the sunshine.

In June he was in Austria, enjoying the mountain air. The late spring day was delightful: warm sunshine and refreshing air, blue skies and white clouds. The forests of oak and beech alternated with mountain meadows vibrant with flowers, and he'd seen eagles soaring overhead, marmots sunning themselves, a small herd of deer, and even the scat of bear.

Above him, on the trail on the side of the hill, he spotted another local attraction. A pretty girl was hiking, her tanned legs gracefully muscular above sturdy hiking boots. A blue hat, a white shirt, and sensible shorts with many pockets completed her outfit. Her trail was converging with his, and they reached the junction at the same time. Duncan smiled cheerfully and wished her, "_Grüß Gott_."

She smiled and dimpled and said "_Grüß Gott_" in return, looking up at him with dark brown eyes. Her blonde hair was worn in short curls. Instead of walking on, she slowed, then he slowed, and then she stopped. They turned to face each other, and soon they were talking of the weather and the trail and the animals seen that day. She told Duncan of a badger; he mentioned the deer.

"You are American?" she asked, switching from German to English.

"New Zealander," Duncan replied.

"I would love to practice my English," she said. "If you don't mind."

"Not at all," he said.

"Have you been here before?" she asked next.

"No," Duncan said, though he had, more than one hundred years before, back when the Nazis stalked the land.

She smiled and said, "I'm Kristl."

"I'm Justin," Duncan replied, giving a hint of a bow. He'd been using the new name for over a month, ever since his well-publicized demise, but it still felt odd. He and Kristl started walking again, going down the hill toward the village. She was a university student, he found out, studying biology and hoping to visit a rainforest soon. Her only jewelry was a silver ring, but it was on her right hand, not her left.

He answered her questions with the story he'd concocted for Justin Morrison, who'd come to Europe some years ago to meet distant relatives in France and Scotland then decided to stay.

They stopped at a lookover, admiring the magnificent peaks marching across the skyline, gray rock stark against blue sky. Kristl backed up to take a better picture. "No, please stay there," she called when Duncan started to move out of the way. "I'd like to have you silhouetted against the sky for the scale."

Duncan tried to avoid having his face photographed, but a silhouette would show only black outline. Kristl clicked away, then asked him to move and took a few more. "I'm supposed to call my friend Annette," she said with an apologetic smile, so Duncan looked out over the valley and watched the eagles as she talked on her phone.

"Annette and Lise are going to the inn," Kristl said as she came near. She smiled at Duncan, and her dimples showed again. "Would you care to eat lunch with us, Justin?" she asked, and Duncan thought that sounded like a good idea.

The trail wound its way down the mountain, crossing and recrossing tiny streams, then following a ridge line for a time. Other hikers were visible in the distance as many paths started to converge. Kristl and Duncan walked underneath cable car wires and watched a four-bladed helicopter with a fantail make its way along the other side of the valley, almost level with them. Duncan lost sight of it when they walked once more into the shade of trees. Eventually, the trail widened and they could see the inn just below them, a long, sturdy white building with flowerboxes under the windows and wooden shutters.

Kristl's girlfriend Lise met them on the trail. She too had short hair, wore a white shirt and sensible shorts, and her legs were just as tanned. "Maik is waiting, and Annette should be here soon," Lise said, and Kristl nodded.

The girls headed straight for the inn, talking with enthusiasm about cheese dumplings; Duncan paused twenty paces from the door. Another immortal was already inside.

A fight was unlikely; this place was too public. Even so, Duncan slung his knapsack—with katana—off his back and began carrying it in his left hand. As he walked toward the building, he evaluated it for escape options, counting windows and doors.

Then the other immortal appeared in the doorway, smiling cheerfully, a beer stein in one hand. His beard was short, as was the fashion, and his light brown hair was braided into a neat queue. A pair of mirrored sunglasses had been pushed on top of his head. He wore a leather jacket, with tan pants over sturdy boots. He lifted the stein in greeting, then disappeared into the dimness.

Duncan grinned and followed Connor inside.

"Nice beard," Connor said in greeting.

Duncan nodded, not taking the compliment too seriously, for his beard about matched Connor's own. Their hair was about the same length, too, though Duncan was wearing his in a ponytail instead of a braid. "Didn't expect to see you here," Duncan said, even as he gave a wave to Kristl and Lise, who waved back then disappeared into the women's WC. Duncan turned back to Connor and said, "The Phinyx school isn't exactly nearby."

"Business," Connor explained, as terse as ever, but flagged down a waitress and handed Duncan a beer.

Duncan took an appreciative swallow of the dark brew then asked, "Who?", for 'business' most often meant immortal business, and Connor was a serious businessman.

But Connor shook his head and said quietly, "Police business. A rapist who strikes up conversations with women as they walk on the trail."

Duncan raised his eyebrows. "I did that today."

"I know," Connor said. "And since the rapist is also tall, dark-haired, and not bad looking, Kristl thought the rapist might be you." Duncan's beer stopped halfway to his lips, and Connor said, "Come on. I got us a booth."

"You're buying lunch," Duncan told him and got only a skeptical snort in reply.

In the sheltered privacy of the booth, Connor explained. "When Kristl sent me your picture, I flew here to buy you a beer."

"You were in that helicopter," Duncan realized. "And you're Maik."

"Michael Connor Audren," Connor elaborated, giving the name he'd been using for the last twelve years. "About ten days ago, a man raped a friend of one of the students at the school. The local police don't have much to go on, and not enough manpower, so some of the Guardians decided to help."

"The Guardians?" Duncan repeated.

"Phinyx security force. You must have seen them at the corporate offices and the schools. Gray uniforms, black piping," Connor prompted.

"A pin with a silver sword on a circlet of olive leaves," Duncan said, now remembering the very friendly Guard Amshula from his visit to Prague, seventeen years ago. Or maybe a silver ring? Lise had been wearing one, just as Kristl had.

"That's the emblem. Guardians of the Peace is the official name."

"And those girls are in it." Duncan looked over at the nearby table, where Kristl and Annette and Lise were enjoying cheese dumplings and talking, though they also seemed to be keeping an eye on who came and went, and none of them was sitting with her back to a door.

"They prefer to be called women, not girls," Connor informed him.

Duncan nodded but said, "They seem younger every year."

"They're not," Connor said bluntly. "We're older." He added, "Lise is the youngest, and she's twenty-one."

Tessa had been twenty-one when Duncan had met her, and he'd never thought of her as a girl. A glorious young woman, and then an even more glorious mature woman, but never a girl.

"You matched the rapist's description," Connor was saying, "and Kristl didn't like your story, so she took a picture." Connor pulled out his phone and showed Duncan the screen. The thermal image showed a man with the faint line of a knife in the left boot and the familiar curve of a katana in his knapsack. The dagger on his forearm didn't show up, his arm had been turned the wrong way.

Duncan decided he'd never say yes to a picture request again. Not that it mattered. Cameras were everywhere. Two were scanning the inn right now, and there was another just outside the door. Satellites were always in the sky. And these new high-sensitivity thermal cameras were a problem. Duncan resolved to buy a rectangular metal case to mask the outline of his sword.

"If Guardians ever see a sword," Connor said, "they back off immediately and contact me. They're well-trained, but immortals are too unpredictable."

Duncan nodded. The Game was best left to those who could play. However… "Kristl didn't back off from me."

"I told her you were safe," Connor said then added with a grin, "Mostly."

Duncan didn't dignify that with a response. "She was on the trail by herself?"

"A woman alone is a better target than two. But Annette wasn't far behind."

Duncan had heard someone behind them on the trail, but thought nothing of it. Many people were out walking today. "Do the police know what the Guardians are doing?"

"No, it's a volunteer effort; they're out here every few days or so. The Guard wanted to help, and it seemed like a good exercise, so the security council approved their request."

"Who's on that council?"

Connor named three people Duncan had never heard of, along with Amshula, the very friendly guard from Prague, who was probably fifty years old by now.

"Not Cassandra?" Duncan asked with some surprise.

"Why would she be?" Connor asked. "She's not trained in security."

"It's her company."

Connor shook his head. "Cassandra and Alex were the founders of Phinyx, but Cassandra hasn't been on the board of directors since she left Prague about ten years ago. She'd been in the public eye too long, and she needed a break. As for owners: thousands of people have invested in the Foundation, including Sara and Colin; Alex left them her shares. Grace and Elena and Amanda are shareholders, as am I, and so, I believe, are you."

"It seemed like a worthy investment," Duncan said. The returns weren't great, but then the Phinyx Foundation's primary focus wasn't profit. Its slogan was "Build a Better World" and it had founded schools and health centers all over the world. Most of its operating capital came from its media subsidiary and its agricultural business. Amanda had also said their clothing and jewelry line was selling well in her chain of stores.

"What's Cassandra's position now?" Duncan asked.

"Music and language teacher."

"What's yours?"

"Martial arts instructor." He added with a proud smile, "Sara outranks me. She's the head of finance development in Europe."

"How's she doing?" Duncan asked. He hadn't seen his niece since Rachel had died, five years ago.

"Good. She's gotten over the divorce, and she and I are doing fine. Now."

Duncan's own children didn't know about his immortality, and he'd been dead to them for twelve long years, ever since he and Connor had abandoned their boat in the Timor Sea. Duncan looked for Tom and Paula's pictures on the web, and watched his grandchildren there as well. "Did you plan to tell?" Duncan asked Connor.

Connor's mouth twisted in a wry grin. "Plan isn't a word I use much with kids. Alex and I were still talking about what to do; then at your wedding, Sara overhead Methos and Cassandra having a chat, and she figured it out on her own. Which meant Colin had to know. John found out when he was kidnapped by Kane, and Rachel saw me die the day we met." He shrugged. "Their kids don't know. I've been 'Cousin Mike' to them for twelve years, but that's almost done. Alea graduates this month, and Will and Sara will be moving to Scotland for the boys' school there."

Connor took a long drink of his beer. "immortality's a hard secret, either way."

"Yeah," Duncan agreed, and took a long drink of his own.

After lunch, Duncan found himself sitting next to Annette at a table outside while five other young women mapped their routes for the afternoon. Her brows were too dark and her jaw was too strong for her to be considered pretty, but it was an intriguingly attractive face all the same. Her dark blonde hair was just long enough to curl. Duncan wondered what she looked like when she was smiling, so he gave her an encouraging smile and asked, "Are you in university with Kristl?"

"I finished last year," she replied, still serious, then Lise said something in a language Duncan had never heard before, and all the women started smiling. One laughed aloud.

Duncan didn't understand the words, but the joke had clearly been at his expense. "What language is that?" he asked the group, changing his smile to friendly and a little bit clueless.

"Amazonian," said Lise. That answer earned her a warning flick of the fingers from Annette, and they went back to their maps. They nodded goodbye to Connor and Duncan, then set off on their afternoon hikes in widely separated pairs, hoping to find a rapist and bring him in.

"Want to come back with me?" Connor asked.

"Sure. I was planning on showing up at the school in a few days anyway." Duncan went with Connor to the helicopter, parked on a flat space carved out of the hill.

"You rated for this model?" Connor asked when they were airborne, and when Duncan nodded, Connor asked, "You all right with mountains?" Duncan nodded again, and Connor let him have control. Duncan gave himself over to the joy and challenge of flying, as he had hundreds of times before.

When they finally reached the school's valley, Duncan took his time and circled, noting the wind turbines mounted atop the walls and the steepness of the terrain, getting the feel of the air in the space between these hills. He lined the glide path up with the ridge line and took the helicopter down, aiming for the landing pad in the lower courtyard, his feet and hands dancing on the controls. The skids settled softly on the grass. Connor nodded at the smoothness of the landing, with a matter-of-fact acceptance that meant more than words of praise, then started the shutdown routine.

Duncan shouldered his knapsack; then they hiked up the hill. And up. "How many steps is that?" he asked, turning around at the top and looking back down the long line of brown stairs, zigzagging its way along the wall.

"Ninety-nine," Connor answered with relish. "Some students call it the Norwegian ridgeback, others the brown monster."

Duncan could see why. He took another deep breath and followed Connor into the school.

* * *

><p>That evening, Duncan ate dinner with Cassandra and Connor in one of the small private rooms off the main dining hall. Connor sat at the head of the table, with Duncan and Cassandra on either side.<p>

"How did Kristl know I was lying?" Duncan asked as he picked up his spoon for the soup.

"You have tells, Duncan, little things you do when you lie," Cassandra said. "Everyone does." She unfolded her napkin and arranged it in her lap then carefully tucked back her very long hair. "The Guardians are trained to look for them."

"Are you training them?"

"I'm one of the teachers," she said. "It's not an uncommon technique. There was even a television show about it a few decades ago."

"So it's not the Voice?" he demanded.

Connor raised his eyebrows but leaned back in his chair. Cassandra stopped slicing her tomato and pushed her plate aside. "No," she said firmly. "To use the Voice, a person must know how to recognize tells, but also quite a few other things. The Guardians have no training in that."

"So, there is no compulsion," Duncan said, making sure.

"There is no compulsion," Cassandra repeated.

Duncan looked to Connor for confirmation.

"It's not the Voice, Duncan," Connor said. "Cassandra won't teach anyone that."

Connor sounded very certain, and Duncan wondered why. So he asked Cassandra: "Why not?"

She took a deep breath but met his eyes. "Because after Roland… turned, and I realized what the Voice had done to him, I swore I would never teach it to anyone. Ever. That was twenty-five hundred years ago."

"Roland's dead now," Duncan reminded her bluntly.

"For these past fifty years. To the day," she added in a murmur and Duncan suddenly realized it was the eighth of June. She picked up her wine and drank it, too quickly, then met his eyes as she reached for his hand across the table. "Thank you—again—for killing him. I was— He…" She took another deep breath and said simply, "You saved my life, Duncan. In several ways. I'd be dead if it weren't for you."

And he would probably have been dead if it weren't for her. She'd protected him from Roland several times. Well, that's what immortal friends did for each other, wasn't it? Each of them needed all the help they could get.

Fifty years also since Cassandra had kissed him, and she and Duncan had spent the night together, seared by a passion forged of dreams long-denied.

Connor had picked up his glass and leaned back in his chair again, watching them both, and Duncan cleared his throat as he patted Cassandra's hand in a brotherly fashion then took his hand away. Connor put his chair back down.

"Also," she said briskly, reaching for her plate, "if I do start to teach anyone the Voice, Connor has promised me he'll take my head."

So much for sweet nothings and romantic endearments, Duncan thought. Amanda had told Duncan that Connor and Cassandra had started sleeping together about three and a half years ago, and Elena had confirmed it, but Duncan had yet to see Connor and Cassandra kiss or even hold hands. Not that their sex life—or lack of—was any of Duncan's business, but he did sometimes wonder…

Then Cassandra offered, "Would you like me to teach you how to resist the Voice, Duncan?"

"Yes," Duncan said immediately. The memory of Roland's words slithering inside him and taking control of his mind and his limbs still made him shudder. Cassandra had controlled him, too, and Duncan hadn't liked that any better, for all that she meant him no harm. "How long does it take?"

Connor looked up from his food. "It took me about ten weeks."

"That was… intense," Cassandra warned, and Connor's eyebrows flashed up and then down, his sign of definite agreement. "We should plan on six months," she told Duncan.

"Haven't seen you in a while," Connor said, the warmth of his voice an invitation to stay. "And this place has plenty of room."

"I want to start tomorrow," Duncan told Cassandra.

"Certainly," she said. "Eight o'clock in my office, just off the music room? During the week, we should also be able to fit in an afternoon session on most days."

"Two hours a day is plenty," Connor said. "Believe me."

Duncan had been about to tell Cassandra "Good" but after that warning, he settled for nodding instead.

Connor reached over and slapped him on the arm with a friendly grin, saying, "Sensei Roxanne is on travel, and I could really use your help in the dojo. Saturdays are busy, and my second class starts at ten."

Duncan grinned fondly even as he shook his head at his kinsman. Connor had never missed a chance to put him to work. But it was good to stay busy, and he was glad to be with Connor again.

* * *

><p>The next morning in her office, before Cassandra began the lesson, Duncan said, "The Guardians used a language I didn't recognize. In fact, I'd never heard anything like it before."<p>

"It's Amazonian," Cassandra answered, just as the other woman had.

"Really?" Duncan had thought that was a joke.

"Really," she said. "I lived with the Amazons, a century or so before the Trojan War. Their language is part of the Hurrian family, which has been extinct for thousands of years. The Guardians find it useful to have a language of their own, much like the Americans used Navaho during World War II, so I taught it to the Guardians a few decades ago."

Sometimes, Duncan didn't truly realize just how old three thousand years was. Or five thousand. Methos had brought him up short this way a few times.

"What does this mean?" Duncan asked and tried to reproduce the words he'd heard the other day.

Cassandra shook her head, asking, "Context?"so Duncan described the situation, then Cassandra nodded and explained, "It means, 'Be careful. He's trying to charm you.' Were you smiling at Annette?" she asked.

"Yes."

"That's why they laughed. Annette finds women more charming than men."

Duncan had one more question. "Have you heard from Methos lately?" Duncan hadn't heard a word since their trek through the Paris catacombs three and a half years ago. After the first year, he'd stopped looking, figuring Methos would one day, once again, knock on his door. But the days kept slipping away, and time was going by. Duncan didn't want to wait anymore.

"He sent me a v-card a year ago," Cassandra said.

"Did he say where he was?"

"Mars." Cassandra turned on the voice recorder and the frequency analysis display. "Ready?"

Duncan took a deep breath and began.

* * *

><p>When the session with Cassandra ended, Duncan knew what Connor had meant. One hour a day was enough. Duncan arrived at the dojo at nine-twenty-seven, standing to one side as the first class of the day filed out. The girls — most seemed to be about thirteen years old— were silent until they bowed and left the dojo, but he distinctly heard explosions of giggles and high-pitched excitement once they were in the hall.<p>

"They like you," Connor said wryly.

"I'll be careful," Duncan said. He'd worked with teenage girls before.

Connor went to the storage racks that stood inside one of the immense unused fireplaces and wheeled out the rack with the practice swords. Duncan moved the one with the protective gear. The next group of students started arriving at nine-forty-nine. They giggled, too. Connor and Duncan ate lunch at noon, then Duncan went to meet Cassandra in her office. He came back to help Connor with the last class of the afternoon.

"There's an advanced technique class at seven tonight," Connor said, sitting on the stack of mats with a water bottle in his hand. "If you're up for more."

Duncan nodded, but decided that next time he'd take the afternoon off and come only twice a day. He joined Connor on the mats, glad to be off his feet, and asked, "Did you and Kate ever get together so she could see Ramirez's sword?"

"No, we were going to meet in Frankfurt two years ago, but she had to cancel; the Mars fleet needed something fixed in a hurry, and since then she's been on the other side of the world."

At least she was still on the planet, Duncan thought. Maybe he'd pay her a visit when he was done here.

"We've shared some interesting messages about forging techniques." Connor stretched his arms over his head. "I need to go back to school again."

"Me, too," Duncan agreed. There was always more to learn. "Do all the students here study martial arts?"

Connor nodded. "It's required. Quite a few make black belt before they graduate. Sara's son will be testing for in a few years. Alea got hers in karate at fifteen." He wore the proud smile of a grandparent, and Duncan looked at the floor. Then Connor laid his hand on Duncan's shoulder, saying softly, "I know you miss them."

"Paula and Tom are doing fine," Duncan said with a tight smile. "And I just read last night on the web that my granddaughter, Krista, will be getting married soon."

"How old is she now?"

"Twenty-six."

The hand on his shoulder tightened in comfort. "And you haven't seen her since she was nine."

"Fourteen," Duncan corrected. "I went back, after Mark Johnson died. She had the lead in the school ballet, and I sat in the front row." He smiled, remembering how beautiful she'd been. "My daughter, Paula, and her husband were two seats over. They never noticed me." His daughter hadn't known who he was.

Duncan shrugged. "I had twenty-five great years with my family. I was lucky."

Connor's voice was rough. "We've been blessed."

* * *

><p>The next day was Sunday, and Connor and Duncan went running together. It turned into a contest, of course, and the last leg back to the castle was brutal. Duncan cursed every single one of the ninety-nine steps in the brown monster of a staircase as he climbed the final hill. Connor was waiting for him at the top.<p>

"Good run," Connor said, slapping him on the back.

"Yeah," Duncan managed, leaning forward with his hands braced on his thighs, breathing hard. "Great." Then he immediately straightened and turned, for an immortal was near.

"Cassandra's up there," Connor said, and Duncan spotted her standing atop one of the castle walls. In her long skirt and with her knee-length hair blowing about her, she would have been sheer inspiration for a medieval troubadour writing of romantic love.

Yet her knight, who was currently wearing running shoes, a faded shirt, and sweatpants, had sworn to take her head if she strayed. Duncan found himself driven to ask: "What did Cassandra say when you told her you'd take her head if she taught anyone the Voice?"

"She said 'Thank you'."

Duncan sure as hell hadn't expected that.

"She's the one who asked me," Connor explained. "As you pointed out the other night, she doesn't have Roland anymore as a living example of how wrong the Voice can go. Twenty years after you killed him, she was feeling more confident, and that made her concerned she'd go too far. Cassandra asked for my help, and I promised." He looked straight at Duncan and clasped his hand hard, a warrior's grip, an oath between kin. "If I'm dead, Duncan, that duty falls to you."

"Yes," Duncan agreed, and knew he had to speak the words aloud. "If Cassandra breaks her vow and starts to teach someone the Voice, I'll take her head."

Connor nodded and repeated Cassandra's words: "Thank you."

Duncan looked back up at the castle wall, but Cassandra was gone.

When he saw her that evening coming from the dining hall, she walked up to him and said it herself. "Thank you, Duncan."

"It's not a promise I wanted to make," he told her shortly. "And it's definitely not one I want to have to fulfill."

"And I will try my best to make sure you never have to." She laid her hand on his forearm and looked up at him as she explained, "But the power is an addiction, Duncan. It destroyed Roland, and at times it has almost destroyed me. I'm not sure I'm strong enough to resist it on my own. So, I am asking you and Connor for your help, once again."

"Odd kind of help," Duncan noted.

Her smile did not reach her eyes. "Fear of the MacLeods is a powerful deterrent for me."

* * *

><p><em><strong>Next: Duncan considers justice<strong>_


	15. Crime and Punishment

**Akademie der Sankte Hildegard, 2046**

* * *

><p>The school hummed with excitement all the next week, as the end of the term drew near and preparations for graduation and going home for the summer were made. Cassandra begged off a few of the classes on the Voice, but promised to make them up after graduation. Attendance in the dojo remained high.<p>

"Thanks to the new and very attractive Sensei Justin," Connor said as he manhandled a mat onto the pile. Duncan ignored him and kept pushing the broom across the floor.

Five students received their black belts, and Connor said farewell to his most recent sempai, a tall redhead who was leaving to attend the academy for Guardians. In front of the senior students, he formally presented her with a beautiful bo, encased in a bag embroidered with her name.

Graduation day came with flurry of parents and speeches and long robes. One week later, Sara and Will and Alea left for Scotland, first to stay with Colin and Oona at the family farm, and then to settle into their new home. That evening, Connor went running in the hills alone.

The headmistress of the school asked Duncan if he'd like to be a dance instructor. "Sister Laina mentioned you were quite good, and we like to have the girls prepared for the Twelfth Night Ball. And I understand you're working in the dojo, too?" Duncan decided he might as well get paid for helping Connor, so he signed a six-month contract and formally joined the staff.

His cleaning schedule arrived the next day, along with various other papers and forms, and Duncan stared at it in surprise. "Didn't you read the fine print?" Connor asked him with a laugh.

Duncan had, mostly, but he hadn't expected to be scrubbing bathrooms or sweeping floors. "The school can't afford a cleaning service?"

"It could and it does, but self-reliance and community service are part of the curriculum. As teachers, we set a good example for the students," Connor said. "Cassandra was in the kitchen last night, and I pulled weeds this week. Everyone here takes a turn cleaning."

Which probably meant, Duncan suspected, that everyone here was more careful about the messes they made. And spending time on your hands and knees scrubbing dirt did keep you humble, as he remembered from his time in the monastery centuries ago. He marked the schedule on his calendar and filed the papers away.

New students began to arrive for the summer session, and soon Duncan was busy with classes, both as student and as teacher. His cleaning chores took only a few hours a week, and he and Connor went running every day. Those ninety-nine stairs of the brown monster grew easier to tame.

Sometimes, he and Connor ran along the river's edge then finished with sprints on the local school's running track in town. "Try something?" Connor asked one day. "Let me know when you sense me." He jogged away, down the street then around the corner. A few moments later, Duncan's skin tightened with the sense of an immortal, so Duncan pulled out his phone and called.

"Got it," Connor said over the phone, then fifteen seconds later the sensation came again. And then again, and again. "Any changes?" Connor asked. "Intensity, direction, duration?"

"No," Duncan said. "It's always the same." And it was getting boring. It also reminded him of his student days, deadly serious games of hide-and-seek among the heather. "What are we doing, Connor?"

"Testing range."

Range was usually either line of sight or within a hundred feet or so. "Where are you?" Duncan demanded.

"At the bridge."

The bridge was at the other end of town, nearly a kilometer away. Suddenly this wasn't boring anymore. "How?"

"Let's finish this first," Connor said, and Duncan impatiently reported in two more times, until Connor said, "Anything?"

"No."

"I'm coming back," Connor said, but Duncan didn't want to wait, so he started running, and they met halfway. "Let's cool down," Connor suggested, and they slowed to a walk. As they went past the houses on the quiet street, Connor explained: "I've been using the quickening to reach out and connect with animals."

Duncan nodded. "The way Ramirez taught you with the stag." Back in the Highlands, Connor had tried to teach him, but Duncan didn't have a knack for it. Not many immortals did. Cassandra, however, had tamed a wolf as a pet. "Is Cassandra teaching you now?"

"We've been practicing these last three years. After we got back from looking for you in the Channel, I realized I could 'reach' farther. I wanted to see how much."

Duncan whistled softly. "That'll be handy. Is the distance the same with Cassandra?"

"Less, actually, unless we're both reaching out. Then it's a bit more."

"Can you connect with each other?" Duncan asked, suddenly seeing possibilities. "Like you connect with animals?"

But Connor shook his head. "People have too many barriers."

A baby or a toddler might not, but Duncan wouldn't want to go into a young one's mind. As they left town and started up the path through the woods to the castle, Duncan said, "I'd like to learn this."

"We'll try," Connor promised then added, "You sensed me as soon as I sensed you, so it's early warning, but it's not stealthy. And it takes energy."

That was why Connor had suggested the cool-down. Duncan grinned. "That means I can finally beat you running up this hill." And he did.

* * *

><p>At the end of August, Connor announced, "The police have the rapist." He and Duncan and Cassandra had gathered in Connor's room, as they sometimes did in the evening, and Connor poured out drinks for them all. "He went after Lise, and Maria took him down."<p>

Cassandra let out a long, slow sigh. "Good. Is Lise all right?"

"A mild concussion, some bruises, and a broken finger. Maria stopped him before he got his pants down. With their testimony and DNA from the first victim, the courts should be able to convict."

Cassandra nodded, but she didn't seem very happy.

"What do you think should happen to him?" Duncan asked.

She glanced up then shook her head and returned her attention to her drink. "I don't make the laws, Duncan."

"But if you did?" he persisted.

"If I did…" Her fingers interlaced, forming a cage about the glass in her hands as she stared at the golden liquor within. Then she looked at him and said, "Rape would be treated as a serious crime."

"It is," he replied, and when her mouth tightened and her eyes narrowed slightly, Duncan couldn't decide if her look was of pity or scorn. It also seemed to have a touch of exasperation thrown in. Duncan had seen a similar look on Methos's face from time to time. "Not everywhere," Duncan admitted, "but mass rape during war was defined as 'crime against humanity' half a century ago. Rape by individuals is a felony in many countries, including this one."

"Those are important steps," she agreed. "As were the laws that recognizes spousal rape and rape of men as crimes. It's much, much better than it was."

"But," Duncan said, because she obviously wasn't satisfied.

"But," she agreed. "Most rapes are never reported, and even when they are, most rapists are never caught. If a rapist is convicted, the maximum sentence here is fifteen years. He's likely to be released in five, and he'll be on a sex offender registry for thirty-five years."

"And you don't think that's enough."

"I don't think it's effective."

"What do you want?" Duncan asked, wondering how far Cassandra would go. "Life imprisonment? Castration? The death penalty?"

"That would stop repeat offenders who were caught and convicted." She seemed completely serious. "But as I said, most aren't caught. And castration doesn't remove the impulse to rape, it just forces the rapist to use another method to hurt people. Life imprisonment and the death penalty are both such harsh sentences that a rapist has little to lose by killing the victim. Besides, once a society accepts execution as a form of punishment, it tends to use it more and more. So: no, none of those."

"Well, that's…logical," Duncan said, using a less judgmental word than "cold".

Cassandra merely nodded. "I try not to let my judgment be swayed by passion." She met his eyes and added ruefully, "Not anymore." Then she asked, with a straightforward curiosity that left him blinking in surprise, "How do you decide when to kill people, Duncan?"

"I don't—" He stopped, gathered his thoughts, and started again. "I don't kill people just because I'm angry." Though sometimes, especially in his early years, his anger had been in control. He repeated her words back to her: "I try not to let my judgment be swayed by passion."

She gave him a small smile of fellowship then asked, "How do you think Methos decides who to kill?"

"Not by anger," Duncan said immediately. Not for pleasure, either. Not anymore. Methos was often exasperated but almost never irate, and his primary reaction was to avoid getting involved, usually by leaving. But Methos had helped Duncan, many times, and Methos would kill, when he thought it was necessary: Kristen Giles, Silas, Keane, Morgan Walker and his thugs, O'Rourke's men… Duncan thought that list over and saw the common theme.

"Methos kills people who are a threat to his friends," Duncan said. And Methos was efficient about it—logical, ruthless… cold. But maybe he had to be. The addiction to power came in many forms.

"I kill when people are a threat to others and are outside the law," Duncan said.

"That's how I decide, too," Cassandra said, and Connor also nodded. "Do you start with anger?" she asked Duncan next.

"Sometimes," Duncan admitted. "It depends on what they've done. Betrayal, murder, torture, hunting the weak… any of those makes me angry. But sometimes, I start with regret." Those killings ended that way, too. The angry ones—like Kronos and Sendaro— ended in satisfaction… and relief. "Often, I don't want to kill them," Duncan explained, "but it's necessary. How about you?"

"I never_ want_ to kill," she said. "Not anymore. But it is sometimes necessary."

Duncan turned to Connor, who had—as usual—been silent throughout, and asked, "How about you?"

"I was happy to take the Kurgan's head," Connor said bluntly. "And Kane's. And I didn't mind taking Bethel's and some others. But often…" He stared into his whisky then took a swallow and stared into nothingness with bleak eyes. "There hasn't been a choice."

Duncan knew exactly what Connor meant. That bald immortal on Menorca who'd been hunting Elena just wouldn't back down. And now he was dead.

"Because of the Game," Cassandra murmured and took a drink herself. "What about killing mortals?"

Duncan shook his head. "We shouldn't."

"Ever?"

"Rarely," he allowed. "When the mortal justice system fails, to defend people, or during a war. Some wars," he amended. "Darius made me reconsider being a professional soldier, but the Nazis were fair game."

"I killed my share," Connor agreed, then turned to Cassandra. "Where were you during World War II?"

"Borneo," she said briefly. She finished her drink in one quick swallow then poured another round for them all.

Duncan went back to his original question: "So, Cassandra, what do you think would be effective in stopping rape?"

"Stopping it completely? Nothing. But we may be able to reduce it. As with other health issues, prevention is the most effective approach. Rape is more common in societies where people are considered property, and where women are not equal to men."

"Men get raped, too," Duncan pointed out.

"Yes," she agreed, "usually in order to make them feel 'less of a man' and more 'like a woman.' But when women and children are people, and when femaleness is seen as good instead of bad, rape becomes more rare."

Duncan shook his head. "The entire society would have to be remade."

Cassandra seemed unfazed. "Yes."

* * *

><p>In early September, Mignone placed second in her horse race, and Elena came to the school. She carried a sprig of the lavender bush in a small pot, and she and Duncan took it to the greenhouse and planted it there. Elena settled in quickly, talking non-stop with Cassandra, sparring vigorously with Connor, and riding horses with Duncan every day. Elena and Duncan kept busy every night, too, enthusiastically.<p>

In one of the quiet moments, as they curried the horses before a ride, Duncan asked her: "What do you think merits capital punishment?" for ever since the discussion with Connor and Cassandra, the topic had been on Duncan's mind.

"Capital punishment by the state?" Elena asked.

Duncan nodded as he gently scrubbed at a patch of dried mud above the horse's eye. The justifications for execution were the same, no matter whether the killing was done by a group or by a lone man. When the state did it, the responsibility for the execution just got spread around, making the burden lighter to carry. It didn't make it easier to decide.

"Murder," she said then clarified, "But not killing, as in war or an accident or self-defense."

"That includes duels."

"Right. Duels—immortal or otherwise—count as war, just one on one. So you could take that bald fellow's head in Menorca, and I kill immortals who try to kill me. But Shaw murdered Claudia, which is why he deserved to die."

Elena's brush raised a cloud of dust from the mare's flank while she listed more crimes. "Deliberate actions that lead to deaths, like betraying your troops to the enemy or setting a building on fire for insurance, or driving under the influence, like that." She paused, the brush in her hand, looking at him over the mare's back, and Duncan stopped what he was doing, too.

"Rape," Elena said, the very word ugly in its brutal bluntness. "Torture of another human being," she said next. "I'd also kill anyone who deliberately hurt a child or an old person badly enough to need hospitalization. Even once."

"Would you kill them by your own hand?" Duncan asked, for all too often, immortals were the ones who had to decide.

"The immortals, yes," Elena said. "Who else knows how? But I don't want to be police; I leave mortals for their own courts to decide." She shrugged at that, then said, "I think that's it. For now."

"Any justifications? Or statute of limitations?" Duncan asked.

Elena's smile was sad. "You mean: Any room for mercy? Or forgiveness?" She started brushing again, raising more dust. "That's the message of Jesus, I know. If it was just once, or if they've stopped… I suppose. Maybe. But if they're still hurting people, I say send them to God now and let him forgive them there." She paused, looked off into space and added, "By my own definition, I deserve capital punishment."

Duncan didn't argue with her. When Elena had been going after the Watchers fifty years ago, she'd tortured and killed a dozen people. To be sure, she'd been looking for the Watchers who'd gunned down her pregnant friend in front of her, and Duncan knew Elena still felt guilty about what she'd done, but even so, those people were still dead by her hand.

"So do probably most immortals," Elena added.

Duncan nodded, for by Elena's definition, Methos deserved execution ten thousand times over, and from a few comments Cassandra had made, Duncan was sure she qualified, too. Duncan himself had some deaths on his hands that felt like murders to him now.

He went back to brushing, even as he wondered how long you should wait for someone to change.

* * *

><p>Two days later, Elena said she needed to leave for a funeral. "Lucille Oiseaux, one of Mignone's owners, died yesterday. The cancer finally took her; she was just holding on until the race. And Henri and Jacques will probably need help at the stable, so I may stay for a while; And my granddaughter is due to be born in November, so—"<p>

Duncan nodded. "So after France, you're going to Italy. And then?"

"Home to Argentina," Elena announced. "And I'm going to stay for a while. I haven't lived there for decades, and I want to go home." She gave him a brilliant smile. "Come spend Christmas with me?"

"Yes," Duncan agreed. "Though I'll have to come back here in January; I promised the girls I'd dance with them at the Twelfth Night Ball. But after that..."

"After that," Elena agreed, and that evening they bid each other a sweetly enthusiastic farewell.

The next morning at the train station, Elena said, "If Amanda visits…"

Duncan watched Elena warily, but he knew better than to say anything first.

"I love you," Elena told him. "But I'm the one leaving, and I'm not jealous. Just as long as when we are together, it's only the two of us."

Duncan brought her hands to his lips for a kiss, then kept her hands close within his own. "I feel the same way," he told her, a little relieved but not really surprised. It was the same agreement they'd made decades before.

"Besides, you and Amanda go back a long way," Elena said. "And she needs to be loved, Duncan. We all do." With that and a peck on his cheek, Elena got on the train then turned to say, "_Adios, mi amor_."

* * *

><p>In late October, Amanda stopped by the school for a visit. Duncan promised to buy her a new dress if she danced the tango with him in front of all the students, to show them how it was done. He'd danced it a few times with Elena, but the students were farther along in their lessons now and needed to see it again.<p>

"Only one dress?" Amanda asked, pouting prettily.

"All right, two," he said.

"Let's make it three," she countered. "With shoes." Duncan laughed and agreed, then Amanda looked him over, more thoughtfully than lustfully, and said, "And I shall buy you some outfits. We have a new line of men's formal wear coming out, and I'd love to see you in it."

Duncan agreed again. Keeping Amanda happy brought its own rewards.

Amanda loved her dresses, the students were impressed with the dancing (and Duncan's outfits), and Amanda rewarded Duncan quite well. On the last day of her visit, as they sat drinking wine and sitting in a patch of sunshine outside one of the restaurants in town, he asked her: "What crimes do you think deserve the death penalty?"

"That dress with those shoes," Amanda replied immediately. She shuddered as the guilty party passed by.

"Seriously," he said.

She looked at him from over the top of her dark glasses. "Trying to decide if you should kill someone?" she asked, the words sharp for all their teasing.

Duncan shook his head. "Not right now."

"But 'seriously' even so?" At his nod, she leaned back in her chair and watched the slow rotation of her gaily painted toes. "Clearly not beheading," she said finally. "After all, we kill each other over the silliest things. I wouldn't want to be judged on all of those."

Neither would Duncan.

"And clearly not theft," she added with a wicked grin.

"Clearly not," he promptly agreed.

She shrugged one shoulder, getting impatient. "I don't know, Duncan. We've all done things over the years. And the laws around us have changed. When I owned slaves, no one blinked an eye, but wearing the wrong clothes could land you in jail. If we kill someone because he killed someone, we become a killer, too. Sometimes killing is justified, sometimes it's not. How's a person to know?"

"How about rape?" he asked her. "Does that deserve death?"

Her toes went still, and then she finished her wine. "I must admit, I would find it satisfying to kill some of those men. Did you know," she said, taking off her sunglasses and leaning forward over the table, "that when the Normans first came to England, their law said a woman could gouge out her rapist's eyes and sever his testicles?"

Duncan shifted in his seat. "No, I didn't."

"That was only if he was married," she said, leaning back again. "If he was single, she was supposed to marry him. But usually, he just paid a fine or the case was dropped. Though sometimes rapists were branded," Amanda remembered. "That was helpful."

Duncan remembered a tribe where husbands cut off the noses of unfaithful wives. The "mark of Cain" had been interpreted in many ways. Duncan decided he'd learned enough. "Ready?" he asked, standing up and reaching for her hand.

As they walked down the village street arm in arm, Duncan asked, "Has Cassandra said anything to you? About Connor?"

Amanda looked at him sidelong. "A little," she answered. "Why?"

"I just wondered," Duncan said then confided his concern:"They don't seem very affectionate."

"They are surrounded by hundreds of curious students," Amanda pointed out. "Which is why the school has rules about public displays of affection between teachers."

Duncan nodded. That made sense. But… "Even in private, they're not—"

"In private?" Amanda interrupted. "Do you mean, in front of you?"

"Yeah." He shrugged. "I'm family."

Amanda shook her head and sighed, saying, "Duncan, darling…" in the way that let him know she thought he was being a clueless male. "You are also the only other man Cassandra has gone to bed with in five hundred years."

"Oh." Yes, ok, he had definitely been clueless. Then Duncan stopped short. "She doesn't think I'm jealous, does she? Because I'm not."

"Of course you're not," Amanda said and kissed him firmly on the lips. They started walking again. "But being with a former lover and a current lover is … awkward," Amanda said delicately. "For everyone."

Duncan nodded, remembering a few occasions. Most of which had involved Amanda.

"Cassandra's simply being circumspect," Amanda said. "Believe me," she added, "when Connor and Cassandra do have privacy, he's getting plenty of affection from her."

"Good," Duncan said, glad that those two had finally found each other again and fixed what had gone wrong between them all those years ago. Duncan took Amanda to a romantic spot overlooking the river to say goodbye.

* * *

><p>Snow had fallen and people were speaking of Christmas and Hanukkah and Yule when Duncan asked Cassandra, "How much longer is this training against the Voice going to take?" He'd been at it twice a day for five months, and she could still order him around. He could distinguish overtones now and she had to repeat the commands, sometimes two or three times, but he never managed to hold out completely. The practice sessions with Connor had also been frustrating. Duncan had learned to extend his range to nearly half a kilometer, but it gave him a migraine that would be the death of him in a duel.<p>

"I don't know," Cassandra said.

"Connor said he learned in ten weeks."

"As I said, that was intense. And he was more motivated than you are." Duncan stared at her, waiting, and she took a deep breath before explaining, "I had… controlled him before."

More like "lied to, manipulated, and used," Duncan thought, but since Connor had accepted her apology, Duncan didn't bring that up.

"And so Connor didn't trust me," Cassandra continued. "At all. I had given him good reason not to. And even without … our history, he was right not to trust me, because back then I wasn't emotionally stable."

Duncan stopped himself from agreeing and said merely, "I remember."

"Once, when I was having a flashback, I used the Voice on him and started to take his head."

Duncan's estimation of Connor's courage, always high, increased.

"That's why Connor wanted to learn," Cassandra concluded. "Why do you? I won't use the Voice on you, and no one else knows how."

"I know," Duncan said shortly. And he trusted Cassandra… mostly. She wasn't unstable now, and she would probably never try to take his head. But as she had once said to him: Never is a very long time. And also… "What if someone takes your head and takes your power, the way Shaw took Claudia Jardine's?"

"I was worried about that, too, but Elena said Shaw didn't take Claudia's musical genius; it took him. Both Shaw and Elena already knew how to play the piano, and even with that, the effect has faded in time, as most quickenings do."

Duncan nodded. Once, after taking a head, he'd been able to play the piano for a week or two, but soon he'd been back to chopsticks. He couldn't compose poetry, either, even with Byron's Quickening. "I have Roland's quickening," Duncan realized. "And I can't use the Voice."

"Exactly," Cassandra agreed. "Just like music, the Voice is a mix of skill, talent, and training."

Training that no one else on the planet had. The transference was a remote threat, and Duncan could resist Cassandra, at least long enough to knock her out, so Duncan decided he'd learned enough for now. "I'm done with the lessons," he told her. "Thank you."

Cassandra smiled in reply. "You're welcome."

* * *

><p>Kate had invited Duncan to see the Christmas market in Frankfurt, and she still wanted to see Connor's katana, so a week before Christmas, Connor and Duncan packed their bags. They would be off to the Highlands after the trip to Germany, to climb the hill together and watch the sunrise over the solstice stones.<p>

Cassandra was at the castle gatehouse, waiting to say goodbye. "Have a happy birthday and happy Christmas, Duncan," she said. "Please say hello to Elena for me when you get to Argentina."

"Thanks, Cassandra, I will," Duncan said. "I'll see you back here in January for the ball. Save me a dance?"

"Of course!" She kissed him farewell on the cheek. Then she kissed Connor goodbye in the same way, though the two of them held hands. "I'll see you in the Highlands on Christmas Eve," she said to him, and Connor nodded in return.

On the train ride to Frankfurt, Duncan finally gave in to his curiosity and asked Connor, "How are you and Cassandra doing?"

Connor turned to look directly at him. "Fine." Then he asked pointedly, "How are you and Elena doing?"

Their year together had been enjoyable, though it was good they had both had jobs and worked long hours. Duncan had seldom lived with another immortal, day in and day out, and the small house had been too cramped for someone with Elena's energy. He was looking forward to seeing her in Argentina, where they could ride every day across the plains and have room to roam. Though he wasn't sure how long he would stay. But Duncan didn't want to get into all of that, so he answered simply, "Fine."

"And you and Amanda?"

Amanda was the same as ever, a whirlwind of mischief and fun, though she hadn't gotten him arrested in years. She never stayed anywhere long. So Duncan said, "Fine."

"And you and Kate?"

They'd enjoyed each others' company, and he was looking forward to seeing her again. He had no plans beyond that. "Fine."

Connor nodded then turned to look out the window once again. The silence was deafeningly thorough, and Duncan leaned back in his seat with a sigh and closed his eyes. He should have known better. Then Connor said, "Duncan," and Duncan looked up. "Cassandra and I really are fine," Connor said. "We get along, we talk, we haven't tried to kill each other in years." He even grinned a bit. "We have fun."

Duncan grinned back. "Glad to hear it. How long are you two staying in the Highlands?"

"Two weeks."

Which meant Cassandra would be with Connor for Christmas, New Year's Eve, and his birthday on New Year's Day. Duncan nodded, pleased to know his kinsman wouldn't be alone—and drinking alone—over the holidays.

"It's good to get away from the school for a while," Connor said. "So… you and Elena?" Connor asked next, really meaning it this time. "And Amanda? And Kate?"

"Fine," Duncan said. "Really." He stretched his arms over his head, leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes, smiling all the while.

* * *

><p>The city was bustling and cheerful, and the visit with Kate went well, though if it hadn't been for the thrum of her immortal presence, Duncan might not have recognized her. Her clothes were warm and sensible instead of sexy, and her hair was a warm chestnut color this time, pulled back simply from her face with a silver clip. She looked younger, with a scattering of freckles across her nose and no make-up. Her eyes were still green.<p>

Connor gave a hint of a bow when Duncan introduced them, and Kate inclined her head graciously in return. They wandered the stalls of the market for a time, listening to voices in a babble of different tongues, looking at toys and gifts, and buying food from the vendors there. Connor was quiet, as usual, until they got to the privacy of her hotel room. She and Connor obviously had a lot to talk about, though Duncan gave up trying to make sense of it after a while; they spoke of titanium alloys, martensite and pearlite, various levels of carbon content, and the colors of iron as it cooled.

"How did you get the color of the blade?" Duncan asked, for her sword gleamed golden against the dark green bedspread.

"It's coated with titanium nitride, a very hard ceramic." Kate smiled at him. "You may have seen it on drill bits."

Connor was nodding, his nose almost touching the sword as he bent to look at it. "Electron beam PVD?" he asked.

"Yes, for the lower temperature and control." She was on the other side of the bed, looking at his sword in just about the same way. "Duncan said you reforged this. Where did you get the folded steel?"

"I made blocks of it while I was with Nakano in Japan, five hundred years ago. Some was still in the cave. I was glad I didn't have to start from scratch. What's the edge on yours?"

"Embedded bits of tungsten carbide."

He lifted his head to look at her across the bed. "How do you sharpen that?"

She grinned. "A diamond grinding wheel."

They both straightened then stood looking down at the others' sword, their fingers twitching with the urge.

Duncan was about to tell them both to just pick the damned things up, when finally Kate said, "May I?" as Connor said the same to her. They nodded to each other, then each focused completely on a sword, lifting it slowly, holding it to the light at various angles, hefting it for weight and balance. Then they started to talk again, of phase diagrams and sintering and the rate of grain growth while the sword was tempered or annealed.

Duncan left them to it and went shopping in the market for Christmas presents. When he returned two hours later, they were still talking, though they'd taken back their own swords. Papers with equations and graphs and drawings of sticks and balls in various configurations covered the bed.

"Dinner?" Duncan suggested. Thankfully, during the meal the conversation stayed on topics he knew: history and wine, horses and literature. They started quoting poetry back and forth, each taking a line, ranging from the ancients to the moderns.

"High-born ladies in their magic cell…," Connor began, starting the poem in the middle which usually made it harder to guess, but Duncan knew this one.

"Forbidding knights to read who cannot spell," Kate chimed in.

"Dispatch a courier to a wizard's grave," Connor replied.

Duncan concluded that rhyme with "And fight with honest men to shield a knave," then signaled the waitress for another round of beer.

"I think the best part of 'English Bards and Scotch Reviewers' is the title," Kate said.

"Not one of Byron's immortal poems, it's true," Connor agreed then asked her, "Did you know he was an immortal?"

She looked up from her plate with interest. "Did you meet him?"

"Once," Connor said, "but he was only twenty-two. He didn't become immortal until he was thirty-six."

"Twenty-eight," Duncan corrected. "By suicide. His public death eight years later from malaria was staged." They both looked at him with questioning eyes, and Duncan wished he'd kept his mouth shut.

"He told you that?" Kate asked in surprise.

"No," Duncan said. "Not exactly."

Now Kate's eyes grew wide. "You took Byron's head," she said softly, almost in a whisper.

"That's why you've been winning the poetry contests lately," Connor observed.

Duncan ignored him and turned to Kate. "He was killing people," Duncan explained. "Mortals." Byron had nearly killed him. "He was…"

"In the darkness," she murmured then looked away.

"He needed to be stopped," Duncan said. And it had fallen to him to do it, because mortals didn't know how and Methos seemed willing to wait forever for his former student to change. Just like he'd waited for Kronos. "I had no choice," Duncan said.

Connor nodded, for he understood about the game and the prize and about protecting innocents. After a long moment, Kate nodded, too, then excused herself from the table. When she returned a few moments later, the waiter brought the dessert menu, and they ordered strudel and a plate with a selection of cookies. Over desert, Kate and Connor shared stories of Ramirez, and Duncan listened avidly.

When the bill arrived Connor declared, "I'm buying," and by that Duncan knew the evening had been a success.

They went back to the hotel, and in the lobby Kate bid them goodnight and went to her room. They watched her climb the stairs then Connor said cheerfully, "I like her."

"Huh," Duncan said, and when Connor looked at him with narrowed questioning eyes, Duncan explained, "You've never once said that about Amanda. Or Elena."

"They're pushy," Connor said. "And they flaunt themselves."

That they did. Duncan had often enjoyed the show. Kate could "flaunt", too, on occasion, but today she had acted more like "the girl next door", the brainy one with glasses.

"And they talk a lot," Connor added.

"You like your women silent?" Duncan asked.

Connor's grin was more of a baring of teeth. "As I have been told—by Heather and Sarah and Rachel and Brenda and Alex and Cassandra—they are not 'my' women. They belong to themselves."

Duncan nodded, for so did Elena and Amanda and Kate and every other woman he'd known.

Connor said, "I like women who are strong. And stubborn." He grinned again. "And quiet."

"Kate talked a lot," Duncan pointed out.

"Not about herself."

Duncan had to admit that with Elena and Amanda, the conversation usually got back to them somehow. And they were pushy, and they did flaunt. They saw themselves at the center of the universe. Duncan liked them that way. He liked Kate, too. They were each their own woman, with their own way of doing things, and Duncan didn't want any of them to change. Variety made life more interesting.

"It's been a long day," Duncan said with a yawn. "I'm ready for bed."

"Our room?" Connor asked as they headed for the stairs. "Or hers?"

"Ours," Duncan said. Kate had been friendly today, but not flirtatious, and Duncan waited to be invited before he knocked on a lady's door. Perhaps tomorrow night. Perhaps not. Duncan didn't have any plans.

* * *

><p>Early the next morning, after they'd finished running, Connor said, "I liked Tessa. And Susan."<p>

Tessa and Susan had both been strong. And stubborn. And beautiful and funny and loving and wise. Duncan nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

Connor clapped Duncan lightly on the shoulder then challenged, "Race you up the stairs?" Duncan won, barely, then they showered and dressed and went to meet Kate. Over breakfast, Connor announced he'd be spending the next two days with a friend then disappeared. Duncan suspected Connor was giving him and Kate a chance to be "fine."

Kate and Duncan walked between towering skyscrapers to reach an ancient church, where a tour guide showed their group tapestries and elaborate vestments. The weaving was incredible. They skipped lunch to make better use of the precious winter sunlight and took a short ride to the outskirts of town, where they went walking among the trees. It was a romantic setting, but Kate wasn't flirtatious today, either. She seemed downright somber.

"Are you all right?" Duncan asked.

"Yes, fine," she said with a very brief smile but then said, "I'm a little concerned about Sofie, that student I took on seven years ago in Ireland. I haven't heard from her in nearly a year."

"Students," Duncan said with complete understanding, and gave her a sympathetic smile.

She returned it but then went somber again. "Not many of my students have survived through the years. I'm not surprised, really; most of them have been women, and we are at a disadvantage in the Game. Have you taken on students?"

Duncan swallowed hard before answering, "Some. But not these last fifty years. You can't do students and families at the same time."

They walked on silently, side by side under the dark trees, until Duncan asked, "Is there anything else wrong? You seem … subdued."

That actually got a grin. "You mean: Why am I not flirting with you?"

"Well…"

And that got a laugh. "I don't flirt with attached men," Kate explained. "And you and Connor both have partners now."

"How did you know?"

"Neither of you is flirting with me. And I saw the gifts you bought yesterday."

Silk scarves and a beautifully carved wooden horse. He hoped Elena would like them.

Kate patted his arm, saying, "Another time, Duncan. We'll be just friends today."

"Sounds good," he agreed, and as they walked beneath the trees they spoke of movies they had seen, the reproductive cycles of moss, and the building of a cathedral, stone by stone.

That night at dinner, he asked for stories of Ramirez. Over the last of the wine, she asked for stories of Byron, and Duncan tried to oblige. He was describing the rock music and the concerts and Byron's jealousy over Mary Shelley's Frankenstein when Kate said: "Last night you said Byron was killing mortals. How? With his sword?"

"No," Duncan said. "Not actively. He would … tempt people and then stand back and watch them destroy themselves."

"It sounds as if it was their decision," she said.

"Yes, it was, but…" Duncan took a drink before stating the reason he had decided that Byron had to die. "He didn't care, Kate. He didn't care whether the people lived or died. It was a joke to him. Meth—" Duncan stopped short and changed that to "My friend Adam said—"

"Philippe was there?"

Duncan nodded and picked up his drink again. "They'd met before. Byron called him Dr. Adams."

Kate set her wine glass on the table. "And what did 'Dr. Adams' say?"

"That Byron was 'empty'. He talked to Byron a bit, I think, but it didn't help. Byron was too far gone. He used a gun on me, while we were fighting."

"I see," she said and refilled their glasses. She stared at the red liquid then murmured, "A pity, all around," before turning the conversation to horses.

When the wine was gone and dessert had been eaten, they went back to the hotel, for they were both leaving early in the morning, she for Paris and he with Connor to the Highlands. Duncan saw her to her door then asked, "Have you heard from Philippe lately?"

"The ship get back from Mars in April. Shall I give him your address?"

Duncan shrugged. "If he asks."

No plans.

* * *

><p>Connor got back late that night, and the next morning they ate breakfast with Kate then said friendly goodbyes. Duncan and Connor arrived in the Highlands just in time for a snowstorm that turned to freezing rain. "Won't be much a view of the sun," Duncan commented.<p>

"Weather could change," Connor replied, which was always true, so they woke in the darkness on the twenty-first of December and climbed the hill to the solstice stones. They didn't seen the actual sunrise, but the clouds broke soon after and the sunshine lay liquid and golden over the snowy hills.

"Happy birthday, Duncan," Connor said, and it was.

* * *

><p><strong><em>Next: a MacLeod family picnic with news of the next generation<em>**


	16. Birthright

**BIRTHRIGHT**

* * *

><p><em><strong>MacLeod Farm, Highlands of Scotland, 23 December 2046<strong>_

* * *

><p>"Happy birthday, Sis," Colin greeted Sara when she came into the farmhouse kitchen.<p>

"Happy birthday, Bro," Sara replied, and she hugged her twin hard. He picked her up, of course, and she squeezed him hard and he squeezed back, until neither of them could breathe. Then they each relaxed their hold and just stood there for a moment, heads on either others' shoulders, eyes closed.

"I've missed you," she told him.

"Same here." Colin let go and asked, "Ready to be fifty?"

"Ready or not, here we come," she replied. She didn't feel older or different, just a little stiff here and there sometimes. Though her hair—and Colin's—had gone grey years ago. The farmhouse didn't look any different either, except that Oona had painted the kitchen pale green last summer and gotten a new stove. The clock Colin had made at the age of twelve still hung near the door. The long wooden table was the same one they had grown up with. Sara ran her thumb over the initials carved into the wood: JBMcL, just as she done for as long as she could remember. Dad had been upset with John for using his knife that way, which was why she and Colin had carved their initials on the underside of the table, where no one could see. It was still dark outside, this early in the morning, but the room was warm and the coffee smelled wonderful. It was great to be home.

"I'm glad Dad will be here today," Colin said.

"Me, too," Sara agreed, even if they were going to a clandestine gathering on the hillside late at night with just the three of them, instead of at the house with the rest of the family for presents and cake. But she'd see him later this week; he was staying at an inn a few valleys over, and Cassandra would be joining him tomorrow. Sara and Colin were planning visits on Christmas and to wish Dad happy birthday on New Year's day.

Sara also got to spend her birthday and the holidays with her twin and her children, for Alea was due to arrive today, and such a visit was wonderful beyond words. "Ready to feed the horses?" she asked cheerfully, and Colin grinned back as they grabbed their coats and headed out the door.

The barn was the same as she remembered, and Colin's four horses were stamping in their stalls, eager for breakfast, of course. She and Colin worked together with little need of words, then took the horses to the pasture. "The bay looks fast," Sara said, as they leaned on the fence and watched the horses graze.

"She is," Colin said. "Bouncy at the trot, though."

"Did you just buy her?"

"Got her in trade," Colin answered. "We do a lot of that here."

"Bartering?" Sara asked in surprise.

"Money's scarce," he replied with a shrug.

"Trade is more efficient on a larger scale, instead of just locally," she pointed out. "And money is more flexible and more portable than chickens or horses."

"Too portable," he said sourly. "It went to the banks; hardly any came back here. After the last financial collapse, there's not many willing to trust in the promises of governments and economists. We have local scrip; it works as money."

"Who backs it?" she asked, intrigued.

"We do," Colin said. "We use it with people we know. And trust," he added pointedly.

Sara nodded. "Money doesn't work without trust."

"And trust needs honor. Maybe if more economists and governments and bankers remembered that, we wouldn't have the problems we do."

"Even if people were perfectly honest, we'd have problems," Sara said. "The global economic system is too big, too complex, and too chaotic to work smoothly. Periodic doubling makes-"

"Stop," Colin told her, holding up a hand. "You do the math, I do the farm, remember?"

"I remember," she said, and they shared another smile before turning to watch the horses again. Streaks of pink touched the sky above the stark grey rock of the hills, and the eastern sky glowed. The wind blew cold, a fresh breeze off the silvered ripples of the loch far below. Sara breathed in the smell of home.

"Do you remember," Colin said, "when you told me you were going to travel the world as an international economist, and I told you I was going to stay here at the farm and be a veterinarian, and you asked: 'Don't you want more?'"

Sara had to smile. "Yes. And you answered: 'Isn't this enough?'" Had it really been thirty years ago? "Has it been?" she asked, turning to look at him. "Enough?"

"Yes." His answer was steady and clear. "We're happy here, and we do good work. And I like the quiet."

"I haven't heard a car all morning." Just the wind, and the occasional cry of a hawk wheeling high above.

"Yes, that," he agreed, "but also in here." He laid two fingertips just above his eyebrow. "I can handle villages, even towns, but cities drive me crazy."

"You hear people?" she asked in surprise, for his talent had always been with animals, except that time Dad had taken a head when she and Colin were sixteen. Colin had said the immortal quickenings were like psychic screams. He'd moved out and gone to live with John for six months, until it had quieted down.

"Nothing specific," Colin said. "Just noise. Like static." He grinned at her. "So don't worry; I can't read your thoughts. No more than usual, anyway."

"Twin," she named him, and he took her hand in his, like always, and they stood together, side by side.

"How about Alea and Will?" Colin asked. "Do they sense anything?"

"Nothing with Alea, and she's almost twenty. I don't think she ever will. But Will's always been… perceptive, and he'll be thirteen this next year. I'm watching him for dreams. Cassandra said those mobile sculptures he makes have power. How about your son, Graham? He's seventeen."

"He's got a knack with animals that's uncanny, but then he's grown up with them. And he's good at finding things. I'm going to ask Cassandra to talk with him while she's here."

"Good idea," Sara agreed.

"So, how about you, Sara?' Colin asked. "Any dreams lately?"

They always used to share their dreams. "No," she had to tell him then admitted, "Not in years." She sighed and looked out over the loch. "I haven't heard anything since I was pregnant with Will. Not even trees."

Colin tilted his head as he looked at her, his brow furrowed with the same quizzical expression he'd had since forever. "Have you listened?"

* * *

><p>Sara began listening. To the wind, to the sky, to the trees. To her son.<p>

"I like it here," Will said to her the day after Christmas. "Graham is great, and Uncle Colin and Aunt Oona are, too. And having horses, and all the animals… That's brill. I wish I didn't have to go back to that school in Edinburgh."

Sara thought about that for barely a moment then said, "You don't." After a talk with Colin and Oona, she and Will moved to the Highlands in January. Will took Sara's old room in the house, right across the hall from Graham. Sara took the guest cottage, for even though she and Oona got along very well, Sara knew better than to intrude in another's woman's house. And she couldn't live that close Colin; they got into each others' dreams. Will started school in the village, helped Colin with the veterinary chores, and rode with Graham every day. Alea continued at university in Edinburgh and visited when she could.

Sara kept busy helping with the farm chores, both in the house and in the barn, and she kept listening, every day. In the dark of winter, she finally heard the heartbeat of the rowan tree, slow and steady under her palm, a deep-voiced singing in her ears. With the awakening of the spring the daffodils trembled and bowed before the wind, a shimmering torrent of gold and yellow and white on the hill, and Sara climbed to the top to her mother's grave. "Thanks, Mom," Sara said, for her mother had planted these flowers decades before. Sara lay on her back on the cold wet earth and opened her mouth to catch the raindrops on her tongue.

Her first dream came with the summer, a dream of smoke and fire and wind, then darkness.

"That doesn't bode well for the picnic," Colin said when she told him in the barn during morning chores.

"It wasn't here," Sara said. "It wasn't yet. We'll be fine."

"Good," he said, the word turning into a grunt as he hauled a bale of hale from the stack, and Sara returned to mucking stalls.

At noon, Sara and Colin drove two cars to the train station to pick up most of the incoming crowd: John and Gina, bleary-eyed from jet lag, and Duncan, Cassandra, and Dad.

"I'm glad we can come to the farm," Duncan said as they loaded luggage into boots. "Now that Oona knows about immortality, it's only the younger set we have to hide it from, and Alea, Will, and Graham already know us as Mike, Laina, and Justin."

Dad was grimly silent, without even a snort, though a quick glance showed a dangerous nostril flare. "Oona figured it out on her own, Dad," Sara explained, as she had explained a few months before.

"Just like Sara and Colin figured it out on their own, Connor," Duncan chimed in.

"Sara overheard a conversation between Methos and Cassandra," Dad replied. "A careless conversation," he added pointedly.

Mom had been in that conversation, too, but Sara didn't mention that. "There were other clues, Dad."

"Lots of them," Gina added. "I was surprised when John told me, but not totally in shock."

"Oona's smart, and she's not blind," Colin said in stout defense of his wife.

"Or deaf, obviously," Dad returned, still in snark mode.

Sara caught her brothers' eyes and the three of them fixed their father with the Just-about-done-putting-up-with-this-nonsense stare. Mom had used that stare to great effect, both on them and on Dad. Sara remembered it well: a small tilt of the head, a slight lift of the eyebrow, and a quirk to the mouth that hinted at amusement worn very thin.

It worked every time. Dad turned to Colin, smiled for real, and repeated Duncan's earlier words: "I'm glad we can come to the farm."

Colin nodded and smiled back, giving the lid of the boot a slam. "It'll be good to have you all home."

* * *

><p>Later that afternoon, Alea arrived, a tawny-haired friend by her side.<p>

"This is Ranie from school," Alea said. "She'd never seen the Highlands, so I told her she had to come." Graham, taking his host duties seriously, especially when a pretty girl was involved, immediately offered to show her around, and the "younger set" headed off for the barn, leaving peace and quiet behind.

"So what's new in the Highlands?" John said, as the "older set" lounged in the garden with drinks in their hands.

"We're going to build a new barn," Colin said.

"Philippa Barton—she and her family moved here two years ago—is helping to design it," added Oona. "I think her daughter's sweet on Graham. She's sixteen."

Sara was definitely not going to mention her own friendship-becoming-a-flirtation with their neighbor Tom Bowyer, so she said only: "I'm helping teach karate at the village dojo. What's new in Colorado?" she asked in turn, and John and Gina spoke of gardens and retirement plans and wedding preparations for their daughter, Cynthia, who was twenty-nine and getting married next year. Their son, Dave, was thinking of running for town council, and maybe Congress in a few years time.

"Dad, Uncle Dunc?" John asked next.

"I'm moving to Argentina this fall," Duncan said.

To be with Elena again, no doubt. Sara wondered just how long that would last. She gave it, at most, three years.

"I'm moving to Sheffield," Dad said. "To study metallurgy at university there."

"Oh," Sara said in surprise. "I didn't know you were leaving St. Hildegarde's."

"Five and a half years is enough," Dad replied.

"For me, too," Cassandra said. "I've a consulting job in Stockholm. I start there next week."

"Oh," Sara said again, even more surprised, and looking back and forth between the two of them. Dad and Cassandra weren't even sitting next to each other. Sara hadn't thought much of it when everyone sat down, because there'd been such a crowd and not quite enough chairs, but if they were breaking up—

"We're fine, Sara," Dad reassured her.

"We just want to do different things right now," Cassandra said.

Duncan was nodding, and John and Gina exchanged a long glance followed by pensive smiles. Sara could understand the need for space in a relationship; it was just odd to see it done so … civilly. But when you had centuries, what was a few years, or a decade or two, apart?

"Here they come," Oona announced as the four young people traipsed across the field. "Time to bring out the food!"

* * *

><p>After the picnic, they played a cut-throat game of croquet (Dad laughed evilly every time he sent Duncan's ball out of bounds); then Graham suggested (mostly to Rani) that they ride horses across the fields.<p>

"I'd love to, but I shouldn't," Rani said. "I'm pregnant."

"Oh," he said in blank surprise then recovered enough to say, "Congratulations."

"Thank you." She smiled, looking very pleased with herself. "A group of us have been trying, and I'm the third one to catch."

Sara barely stopped herself from asking Alea if she was trying, too. Or if she had been the first or the second to "catch". She'd talk to her daughter later. Very soon. From the looks flying around the circle, Sara knew that she wasn't the only person interested.

Gina broke the silence by asking carefully, "Are you and the father living together, Rani?"

"Oh, I haven't picked a father yet," Rani said.

John's eyebrows drew down in heavy disapproval. "Seems to me you have."

Rani looked startled then angry. She started to reply, but Alea touched her arm, saying, "I think they do it differently in the States, Rani. Uncle John, over here when a woman doesn't already have a husband, if she gets pregnant then she starts looking for a fellow who'll make a good dad."

"It's a real honor to be asked," Graham put in.

"We used to look first, then get pregnant," Gina said.

Sara was pretty sure Gina had meant it only as an observation, but Rani took it personally.

"Getting pregnant was easy back then," Rani flared. "I'm lucky to get pregnant even this once, and hardly anybody goes full term. I've already helped five of my friends when they've had miscarriages, and every day I pray to the Lady that they won't have to help me."

"The sterility plague has been devastating across the globe," Cassandra said, her voice calm and reasonable, and people settled back down, nodding a little. "People deal with it in different ways, trying to do what's best for the children." She smiled warmly at Rani. "As you are."

Rani sat back, apparently mollified, and crossed her arms.

"I was pregnant when I first heard about the plague, thirty years ago," Gina said to Rani. "We were lucky and didn't know it." She turned to Sara and Oona. "It caught both of you."

Sara nodded. "I had three miscarriages before Will was born." She smiled at her son, her miracle child, but he was scowling a little in embarrassment, so she turned away and didn't give him a hug.

"We stopped trying for a second after a few years," Oona said.

"Is the plague getting any better?" Duncan asked Cassandra.

"No, but it's not getting worse. The birth rate seems to have settled at eight per thousand. The population was stable at seven billion for the past thirty years, but of course, the average age has been increasing, and so the death rate is too. Lately, fevers have been sweeping through nursing homes, so the death rate has increased for the cohort of people over seventy. World population will probably drop to five billion over the next fifteen years."

"Two billion people are going to die?" Will asked.

"Seven billion people are going to die," Colin answered easily. "Eventually. It's how it's supposed to be." He turned to Rani and asked cheerfully, "When's the baby due?"

* * *

><p>"Are you in the group trying to get pregnant?" Sara asked Alea as soon as they were alone, walking to the stables. She didn't ask if Alea were already pregnant, because Sara knew Alea would have told her that right away.<p>

"No," Alea said, and Sara let go of a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. Then Alea added, "Not yet," and Sara took another breath in. "I wanted to talk to you first," Alea said.

"Thank you," Sara replied, reaching out to her daughter, so that they walked hand in hand. "I'm really glad you and I can talk."

"I'm really glad you listen," her daughter said. "Some of those moms…" She shook her head. "So?" she prompted. "What do you think?"

"You're sure you want a baby?" Sara asked.

"Yes, which means I should start now. My age-group has high fertility, and if I do manage to get pregnant—and most girls don't—I can go back to school later, when I'm old, like thirty or so."

"Right," Sara said, keeping her face straight.

"And we have money, plus of course there's the child allowance from the government. They just upped it again. That'll be all right."

"What about someone to be the father? Have you thought about that?"

"Or course! I plan to ask Sensei Justin. I was going to ask Sensei Mike, but he'll be busy with school for years. They're both great guys."

Sara found herself opening and closing her mouth, swallowing each and every phrase. What could she say? They're too old? One's my uncle and the other is your grandfather? People hunt them with swords? She settled for, "They have girlfriends."

"But not wives. And anyway, even if the guy has a girlfriend or is married, he can still be the father. We don't have to share a house; we could live next to each other." She wrinkled her nose thoughtfully. "Living here would work, with Uncle Colin and Graham. Or even Will, once he gets old enough. It might take me years to get pregnant."

"Living here sounds like a really good idea," Sara said. Much better than with either of the "sensei". Next question: "What about the biological father?"

"I was thinking of starting with a sperm bank," Alea said. "Like Grandma did to have you and Uncle Colin. The success rates aren't as high as with live fertilization, but I don't have to worry about disease or about how to actually meet the guys."

"Very reasonable," Sara had to say.

"That's how Zizu got pregnant, since she already had a boyfriend and he wasn't keen on her stepping out. She lost the baby at eleven weeks, though."

"I'm sorry," Sara said, and she meant it. She could still remember—would always remember—the fierce cramping and the stains of bright blood, and the bitter tears of lost hope. She also remembered the endless medical procedures with Will. "Alea," Sara said, "it's not supposed to be this complicated, you know. Yes, it's important to have a baby, but don't forget to fall in love, to have fun, to enjoy each other."

"Don't worry, Mom," Alea said with a grin. "There is no way I'm going to forget _that."_

Sara decided she didn't need to give Alea any more encouragement there.

Finding room for everyone to sleep that night was easy, once Duncan announced he was sleeping outside under the stars and the four youngsters said they would, too. John and Gina opted for the downstairs guest bedroom in the house, and Colin and Oona had their regular room, of course, where Mom and Dad used to be. Dad and Cassandra were to sleep in the cottage, a place with fewer memories, while Sara spent the night in her childhood room, now decorated with Will's many collections of "precious stuff."

Sara opened the window, the better to hear the wind, then drifted off to sleep in the long twilight of a summer evening. She dreamed again that night, of smoke and fire and flames, and when she woke, for a moment she couldn't breathe and she was in darkness even when she opened her eyes.

Colin didn't share the dream, and Cassandra had nothing insightful to offer. "Use one of Will's shambles," she suggested.

"Like a dream catcher?" Sara asked. She'd slept under three of his shambles last night.

"No, while you're awake. Hold it in your hands and look. Or close your eyes and feel. They work in different ways."

Sara tried, but saw nothing and felt nothing. Neither did Duncan or Colin or Alea. Dad tried, and came away thoughtful. Graham looked surprised and stared at it some more. Cassandra nodded with satisfaction. Will just shrugged and said, "They're like windows. I can't open them yet, but I will."

Sara couldn't see out those windows, but she had other ways: dreams, trees, portents, and whispers in the wind too long ignored. So when a shadow rippled over John's face from a passing bird, Sara said, "Stay here, John. You and Gina. Come live in the Highlands."

"I've missed it, that's true," he said, turning to look at the hills and the sky. His hair was totally white now. "I'll talk to Gina," he said finally. "But even if she says yes, we can't move until after our daughter's wedding next summer, of course."

"Of course," Sara agreed. When John and Gina were ready to go, Sara drove them to the train station and hugged them goodbye. Soon, all the visitors were gone, and the farmhouse settled into its summer routine.

Sara took to sleeping outside that summer, under the stars, opening herself to the dreams. In the winter, she walked for miles every day. In the spring, she once again laid her hand on the trees. So when Alea called in April to say that she was pregnant, Sara wasn't surprised. "She'll have red hair," Sara told Alea. "She'll be born with the snow."

Will's children would be many, Sara knew. She'd seen the endless line walking over a mountaintop, passing between the solstice stones. She mentioned that to Cassandra on the phone, who looked very pleased. "Anything about Graham?" Cassandra asked.

"Nothing in my dreams," Sara said. "But he and the Barton girl have been spending a lot of time together."

"Good," Cassandra said with a satisfied nod. "And how are you doing, Caorran?"

"Better. I needed the quiet time." And the not-so-quiet time. Tom and she had finished flirting and moved on to the fun stage. He'd slept over three times this week, and she'd be spending tonight with him.

"Yes, we all need to recharge," Cassandra said then added something about her time as a music teacher in Austria and how relaxing that had been.

Sara nodded politely, banishing thoughts of the various "recharging" and "relaxing" that she and Tom might do, and paid attention to the conversation she was having now.

"Are you going to the Phinyx reunion in October?" Cassandra asked next. "It's in London this year, not too far."

"Yes, I know. Alea asked me to meet her there, and to do some sightseeing and shopping before the baby comes, and Dad said he'd be in London for a conference on space exploration that week, so I'm bringing Will, too. He and I will be arriving on the sixteenth."

"Then I'll see you there," Cassandra said cheerfully.

Sara suddenly realized that "you" didn't necessarily mean everyone, and she wasn't sure what was going on between Cassandra and Dad these days. Maybe Dad hadn't even told Cassandra he'd be there. Maybe Cassandra hadn't told him. "Are you two—"

"Connor's been busy," Cassandra replied. "And so have I. But I was going to send him a note soon." She smiled reassuringly. "Don't worry, Caorran; we're fine. Even if he's bringing a lovely graduate student with him that weekend, or if he's flirting with girls at all the parties at university or if he's sleeping with one—or more—of his professors, we'll be fine."

Sara had come to terms with the idea of her daughter having "a good time" at university. She wasn't as easy with the idea of her father doing the same.

"Any more dreams of the smoke and the fire?" Cassandra asked.

"No," Sara said. "Not for a while. Neither has Colin."

Cassandra pursed her lips but then gave a tiny shrug. "Many dreams take a long time coming true."

"Let's hope this one does," Sara said. "I'll see you in October, Cassandra," Sara promised, and then they said goodbye.

Will burst into the cottage, dropped his schoolbag, and grabbed an apple from the bowl. "Are we riding today, Mom?" he asked, already munching away.

"Of course!" Sara replied. They put on riding boots, went to the barn and saddled the horses, and with fifteen minutes they were riding across the fields on a brisk spring day, playing follow-the-leader and racing here and there. At the top of the hill, Sara signaled Penny to halt, and stood up in the stirrups to stretch her legs and look around. A rare beam of sunshine sliced through the clouds and set the loch aglow. To her left, the daffodils nodded gently on the cemetery hill, and the wind carried the flowers' sweet scent through the air.

Soon, Sara thought, I'll bring my granddaughter here, and Will's children someday, and when they're old enough, I'll teach them to ride horses across the hills. Together, maybe, we'll be able to listen to the heartbeat of trees. "And so that's good," she murmured to herself, with a phrase she had used since she was a little girl, counting up the good and the bad.

The sunshine was gone now and the air was chill. Sara shivered a little in a sudden breeze that set the daffodils to dancing around the graves. She urged Penny to a trot and went to join Will.

* * *

><p><strong>Next:<strong> The MacLeods gather in London, and Methos returns


	17. Line of Fire

**London, England, 16 October 2048**

* * *

><p>Sara had expected to see Cassandra and Dad on the trip to London for the Phinyx reunion and the space convention, but she hadn't expected to see Duncan walk into the hotel restaurant where the family had met for a late dinner. His beard was clipped short, his hair was in a tight braid, and he looked handsome and utterly resplendent in a tunic of scarlet trimmed with black piping and fasteners made of black silk cord. His striped gray trousers were tucked into black boots that reached to the knee.<p>

"Sensei Justin!" Will exclaimed and jumped up from his chair to meet Duncan halfway across the room.

"I'm glad you could make it," Cassandra said, after the handshakes and hugs were done. "How are things in Argentina?"

"We're busy training race horses," Duncan said, pulling up a chair between Alea and Will. "I was in Germany buying a helicopter for the estancia when I got your note."

The six of them ate dinner together, and Will and Duncan made plans to go see the Sutton Hoo ship at the British Museum the next day. After dessert, they left the restaurant to go back to their rooms. In the hotel lobby, all three immortals stiffened slightly, and Dad and Duncan looked toward the bar. Cassandra kept walking, her pace steady and her face calm, clearly pretending she didn't sense the other immortal nearby. Long ago, she'd told Sara it was a good way to hide.

It didn't work if the immortal already knew who you were. Dad and Duncan stopped short, and after a seemingly casual glance Cassandra stopped, too. Because standing at the doorway to the bar was Duncan's friend Methos. Back in the Bronze Age, he'd owned Cassandra as a slave.

Sara hadn't seen Methos since she was nine years old, halfway around the world at Duncan's wedding in New Zealand. Methos hadn't aged, of course, but he looked different. He was following the fashion of longer hair, just like Dad and Duncan, but Methos was trying to look middle-aged. His hair was long enough to be shaggy, and he had a neatly trimmed gray beard. Glasses helped to hide his youthful eyes, and the tunic of his conservative businessman's outfit was a sedate dark blue with only a bit of rose and yellow trim at the collar and the cuffs. The colors matched the plaid of his trousers.

Methos walked over to them, an ebony cane (probably hiding a sword) in his left hand, and gave a short nod to Dad and Duncan then half-bowed to Cassandra. Her slow nod back was nearly regal in its dignified silence.

"Sara, how nice to see you again," Methos said with a smile, as casually as if they'd last seen each other this past summer, instead of forty-two years ago. "And these must be your children," he said, smiling now at Alea and Will. "They look quite a bit like you."

"My daughter, Alea," Sara said. "My son, Will." Then she looked at Methos and waited, because she had no idea what his name was now.

"Kyle Winston," Methos introduced himself. He bowed quite low to Alea, and she smiled back with aplomb; ever since her pregnancy had started to show, she'd gotten used to that type of attention. Methos offered a handshake to Will, who was obviously pleased to be recognized as an adult instead of being treated as a fourteen-year-old.

Dad's eyes had narrowed. "Would that be Dr. Winston?"

"Why, yes," Methos said as he turned to Dad. "I'm presenting a paper on vacuum welding tomorrow morning at the space convention."

Dad gave a short nod. "I saw your name on the program." He'd talked about the new welding technique at dinner until Duncan had changed the subject.

Methos raised his eyebrows and said, "Perhaps I'll see you there, Mr. …?"

Sara hadn't thought about Methos not knowing anyone else's new name, either.

"Michael Audren," Dad said. He didn't offer to shake hands.

"Laina Garrison," Cassandra said when Methos turned to her. She didn't shake hands, either.

"And Justin Morris, I do believe," Methos said finally, turning to Duncan. "It's good to see you again."

"I didn't know you'd be here, 'Kyle'," Duncan said then added, "Seems we've lost touch over the years."

Cassandra shot Duncan a glance at that. Dad was watching Methos, whose only response was a tiny smile, nearly hidden in his beard. "Off-planet mail is very slow," he explained.

"Have you been to the moon?" Will asked with intense interest. "Or Mars?"

"Both," Methos replied.

"What's it like?" Will asked immediately. "Did you throw up in zero-g? Did you help build Marsdome? Have you—"

"Will," Sara said, laying her hand on his shoulder.

"No, it's good to see such enthusiasm," Methos said, smiling again. "I'd be happy to talk with Will about going into space."

Sara found herself smiling in return, and Alea and Will were clearly charmed. "He's likeable," Dad had said about Methos decades ago, "but I don't like him. I don't trust him, either, and neither does Cassandra, and neither should you."

So Sara stopped smiling and replied, "Thank you, that's very kind. But perhaps another time. It's quite late, and it's time for bed."

"For us, also," Cassandra agreed, standing so close to Dad that their shoulders were touching.

Methos gave her another of those tiny smiles and a minute bow then turned his attention to Duncan. "I hope you're not tired, Justin." His eyes and voice turned serious for the first time. "For I would very much like to buy you a beer."

It seemed to Sara that Duncan thought about that offer for a good five seconds before he finally said, "Yes."

* * *

><p>With five thousand years of experience behind him, Methos was not often surprised. The night out with Duncan started out as Methos had expected: some reserve and some resentment at the beginning, with gradual yielding to good jokes and good humor, aided by not a few beers.<p>

Around one in the morning, in a dim booth in the back corner of the bar, Methos looked straight at Duncan and told him: "I missed you."

For this rare (and admittedly calculated) act of heartfelt honesty, he was rewarded by a dusky flush and a darkening of eyes.

But Duncan took a long drink of beer, hiding behind the glass. He put it down, his face reserved again, shrugged wide shoulders just a little and came back with: "I wasn't hard to find."

Unspoken subtexts abounded: "If you'd wanted to look for me" and "You weren't easy to find, because you disappeared—again" and "I don't trust your honesty to last, so I'm going to be flippant first in self-defense." All of them were valid.

Methos ignored the lure of flippancy. Honesty: that was the key.

But he wasn't very practiced at it. He was still trying to decide what to say when Duncan added, "After Kate left the next day, I went to look for you, but you were already gone."

He hadn't merely "gone." He'd deliberately left. Methos had wandered the city for hours that night, waiting for the sun to rise before he went home for breakfast. He had planned on staying in Paris for a few months or maybe a year, depending on what Duncan did. Or didn't do.

Instead, in the quiet darkness of that winter night, Methos had wandered down a side street and found himself whiplashed by a pair of entwined quickenings in a hotel room nearby. He'd known who it was. He'd known what they were doing.

He could feel it. As Methos had stood on that city street, with his heart pounding in his chest and blood roaring in his ears and lust surging just about everywhere, somehow— maybe because MacLeod had just taken a head and was broadcasting, maybe because of the double quickening he and MacLeod had once shared—somehow Methos had sensed a hell of a lot more than he usually did from fellow Immortal.

He could feel Serena, sweat-slicked and warm, pressing against him, her hair sliding across his chest. He could taste her mouth, open to his, soft and hungry, and he could hear her whispered passionate words. Her hands were sweetly fierce on his hips, her legs wrapped around his, urging him closer, and he reached for her … and slammed his fist into a brick wall, gasping at the pain and shuddering until the connection snapped and Methos was himself again.

He'd hit the wall a few more times, until the pain burned out the lust, and then he'd walked away. A long way away. After the inadvertent peeping-feeling-Tom episode, Methos knew himself well enough to realize he wouldn't be ready to face Duncan for a while. He'd say something flippant or sarcastic or defensive, and then Duncan would either want to know why or get pissed off, and Methos didn't want to explain and he didn't want to argue. Best to put some time and some distance between them.

Going off-planet was a little farther than he had anticipated, true, but you didn't turn down a chance like that. He actually had gone to Caen for a farewell visit, the month before he went off-world, only to find that Duncan had set up house with Elena Duran. Once again, Methos had kept his distance and bided his time.

Until now. Running into Duncan in London (with Elena on another continent) was a stroke of fortune, and Methos had long ago learned to honor that goddess when she smiled. He'd had quiet enough of her frowns. So now Duncan and he were sitting in a bar, having a drink, and trying to reconnect. In an honest and heartfelt way. "You were… busy," Methos said. "I didn't want to intrude."

Duncan snorted in heartfelt derision. "That hasn't stopped you before."

Oh, it had. More times than Duncan knew. Methos took a deep breath, because it was time for honesty again. Though not about that. "I wanted to be invited," Methos admitted, watching Duncan's eyes.

They narrowed then widened, and then Duncan sighed. "Methos…," Duncan began with a shake of his head. He shrugged again, and then he smiled, a glorious blaze of beauty in the dim. "Mi casa es su casa," Duncan offered.

Welcome words. Balm for the spirit, ease for the heart. Though not really true. They had each said them to the other, but they'd always been visitors in each other's lives. That wasn't about to change any time soon, not with Elena keeping the home fires burning in Argentina. "Well, when you get a house of your own, let me know," Methos told him, keeping his tone light. "Maybe I'll visit."

Subtext abounded once again. Duncan hadn't visited Methos in his house in England, even though Methos had deliberately made himself easy to find. And given Duncan the key.

"I'd like that," Duncan replied, and his smile still cast a glow. Duncan looked straight at Methos and told him: "I missed you, too."

Methos was pleasantly surprised.

* * *

><p>Sara woke late and rousted the kids out of bed. She was almost done with breakfast when Duncan knocked on the door. He seemed refreshed and in good spirits. Methos was nowhere to be seen.<p>

"Hurry up, Will," Sara called, and her son pulled on his shoes, grabbed an apple and a bagel, and headed out the door with "Sensei Justin" to go to the museum.

Alea was still in her pajamas with unbrushed hair, yawning over her tea. "I'm going shopping with Mara at nine," Alea announced.

Sara kissed her goodbye then found Dad and Cassandra waiting for the elevator in the hall. Their fingers were lightly intertwined, and their shoulders were nearly touching. Sara gave them the privacy of the elevator and instead ran down the four flights of stairs.

They met again in the lobby. Dad gave her a quick hug, said cheerfully, "See you two at lunch!" and went whistling out the door.

Cassandra watched him go, the corners of her mouth twitching into a grin.

"What's so funny?" Sara asked.

"That song," she replied as they left the lobby through another door. "Its lyrics are a paean to Erato."

Sara translated the archaic references: her father was whistling the melody of a hymn of thanksgiving and praise to the Muse of erotic poetry, and Cassandra knew the words. "You can sing all the verses, I suppose," Sara said, pulling her hood up against the chill wind.

"Quite a few," Cassandra acknowledged. "I know at least six about how to play a flute."

"Let me guess," Sara said, with a saucy grin of her own. "Fingering, blowing, single flute, double flute, one handed, two handed…"

"I see you know them, too," Cassandra said. "Tom's a lucky man."

Sara was glad that Tom agreed. Last week she'd woken to find him smiling down at her, and she'd smiled back up at him. They'd gotten out of bed late that morning. Sara was already looking forward to getting back home. And speaking of finding a partner…

"Was Duncan out late?" Sara asked Cassandra as they turned the corner.

"I felt him come back to his room around two in the morning."

"By himself?"

"Yes, Caorran," Cassandra replied. "Alone."

She quickened the pace, and for the rest of the walk, Sara amused herself by making up rhymes about flute playing.

At the hotel where the convention was being held, she and Cassandra passed through the hotel security and the Phinyx security, and then they were swept up in the chatter and hugs of hundreds of women. The annual Phinyx reunion had become quite a show. They'd graduated nearly six thousand sisters last summer, and the first graduating class was having its twenty-fifth reunion this year. Sara listened intently as people mingled and had coffee and tea; casual chatter was much more informative—and honest—than official reports and memos.

"I asked Ysette to come," one woman said to a group of friends. "I even told her she didn't have to pay. But she said she had to ask her husband, and then she said no."

"Give her time," said a sister with short, gray hair and the gold sword-and-earth pin of a senior Guardian. "She'll come back. We always do."

"Once a sister, always a sister," said a short blonde, linking arms with the woman next to her, and they smiled at each other.

Sara passed a trio in the green and white surplices worn by those who served the Mother. "Donations are down," one said, "but more people are coming to the temple for food. We need more land, more—"

And other conversations…

"—three times as many funerals as sainings—"

"—my daughter says she wants to be a Guardian, and her dream is getting into Themis Institute. But we're pacifists, so I'm not—"

"—love your hair—"

"—the students these days think they're so precious. They've never had a brother or a sister to share with—"

"—getting married in January—"

"—salt-water intrusion—"

"—more threats from extremist groups—"

"—lowlander migration—"

"—best vid in years—"

Sara joined Cassandra in a secluded corner next to a living tree. "What's the mood?" Cassandra asked.

"Upbeat, but tense. They know how thin the margins are. "

"We've had barely time enough to sow the seeds far and wide," Cassandra said. "Not everything will grow and survive." She smiled and waved to a priestess dressed in a green surplice trimmed with black, who waved back.

"Tell me what happens at the convocation of temples this morning," Sara said.

"Of course. Tell me what happens at the council meeting."

"Of course," Sara agreed, and they exchanged an ironic glance. "Will you be joining the council again?"

"Perhaps, in a generation or two. I'll be taking on a new identity next year. Laina Garrison has been around for over two decades."

"Not so easy to change your name these days."

"No," Cassandra agreed. "Ages ago, we didn't even bother. The Lady simply told people she'd been touched by the gods and made immortal, and everyone believed."

"Now we do experiments," Sara said. Cassandra's answering smile was thin. "Any news from Grace on her 'Investigation of Fertility and Sterility of Selected Populations'?" Sara asked. Not a title to excite interest, unless you knew that "selected populations" meant immortal.

"She sent me a preliminary report last night. I'm supposed to meet her later today."

Sara raised her eyebrows in inquiry, and Cassandra unwrapped her phone from her forearm and selected a screen then handed the phone over. Sara skimmed the report, slowing when a phrase caught her eye.

_…possibly a dormant virus triggered by extreme trauma…_

_…transmission method unknown… present in neonates … spontaneous genetic mutation possible…_

_…maternal death … abandonment…_

_…some alleles in common, but not statistically significant from surrounding population …_

_…females always anovulatory, even before acute phase…_

..._sperm appear normal but are infertile with ova of uninfected females,,,_

Sara handed the phone back. "So, we still don't know where Immortals come from."

"We still don't know," Cassandra agreed. "Perhaps Richie Ryan was right. Maybe space aliens—or maybe faeries or time travelers or angels—are leaving immortal babies to be raised by mortals, like cuckoos in the nest of a starling."

Behind the humor was irritation and disappointment; Sara knew that Cassandra had been hoping for more. But that wasn't the only project their genetic labs had been looking into. "Has Georgiana isolated the psychic genes yet?"

"She's learning a lot, but as with most traits, the genes work together, not separately, plus there are strong epigenetic factors. She did find three more populations, so with eleven to work with, she has a better sense of where to focus." Cassandra gave Sara a sidelong, knowing glance. "Georgiana found your sample very interesting."

"Do tell," Sara prompted.

"You have sixteen identified markers. Colin has seventeen."

"And Will?"

"Nineteen. Alea has thirteen."

Sara had long known that Colin had more power than she did. He just didn't like to use it. And Alea hadn't shown any traits, whereas Will had manifested early. So Sara wasn't surprised by the numbers, but she did ask, "Is it stronger in males?"

"In your line, perhaps." Then Cassandra asked, "How are your dreams?"

"I see children." Sara laughed as she fluffed her hair, all gray and white now. "Not hard to guess I'm looking forward to being a grandmother."

"And Colin?"

"He hasn't mentioned any recently. We've both had the dream of darkness, as you know, though not since August. And you?"

"A tree in a courtyard with a bell tolling in the distance. I think it's a school, a new one."

"Good," Sara said. They needed to start more. Dreams of the future were frustrating, but still helpful. "How many genetic markers do you have?"

Cassandra shrugged. "I don't know enough to do the counting myself yet, and I'm not giving a genetic sample to a lab, even if they are 'anonymous'."

Back to experiments again. A chime sounded, and people began to sing as they walked to convocation and council and classes. Cassandra went off with a group dressed in green. In a business suite on the fifteenth floor, Sara put on her veil of gray silk trimmed with white then joined the other councilors in the circle.

After the opening prayer and meditation, the woman sitting across the circle from Sara greeted them as sisters. Her gray veil was trimmed with red. She gave the traditional invocation: "We are the change we have been waiting for."

With her sisters, Sara responded: "We shall change the world."

* * *

><p>Centuries ago, Methos had ranked ways to die in order of messiness. Keeping the skin intact was important. Freezing to death was like going to sleep. Drowning was distinctly unpleasant, but didn't require healing, just air to revive. Penetrating wounds, as from swords or knives, tended to heal neatly and leave your clothes mostly intact. Slicing wounds were much messier, nor did he enjoy shoving guts and various organs back inside the intestinal cavity and holding flaps of skin together. Burns were gruesome, and the healing could take days.<p>

His choice, naturally, was none of the above. He vastly preferred being alive. Especially on a day like today. His presentation on vacuum welding this morning had been gratifyingly well-received, and he had decided to go for a stroll. The autumn sky was deep blue, the air was brisk, and the sunshine was warm.

Methos swung his ebony sword-cane lightly as he walked the streets of London, amusing himself by looking for streets he'd walked four or five centuries ago, and trying to recognize buildings. He was thinking about where to eat lunch when he felt, rather than heard, a low frequency rumble in his bones and on the sole of his upraised foot.

It lasted less than a second. Then the windows of the building across the street erupted in flames, and the world turned upside down. He hit something that spun him halfway around and made his collarbone go crunch, then landed hard on his hip and his shoulder. He bounced.

Methos stayed down, wedged painfully between a brick wall and something cold and sharp pressing against his back. Perhaps a piece of a car? He could smell smoke, but it was too dim to see much. He also couldn't hear. Percussion shock, perhaps a ruptured eardrum. He lay there, breathing slowly and glad he hadn't died, and waited for the healing to finish.

When he could hear again (screams, high and thin, over the crackle of flames and a siren wailing), he leveraged himself to his hands and knees and started to crawl. He found his cane-sword not far away, and he hauled it with him, banging against his thigh. Blood dripped from the tip of his nose, and he followed that trail. He went around a corner, found a pole and pulled himself upright, holding on tight against the wave of nausea and dizziness. Concussions took a bit of time. There was also something wrong with his right leg.

He blinked a few more times, wiped the blood from his forehead and eyes, then took inventory. All fingers and toes still there. He touched his head, relieved to find both ears, a nose, and most of his hair. His tongue told him he still had his teeth. He stretched one shoulder, feeling the collar bone settle, then bent down and yanked out a windscreen wiper from the meat of his calf. He tossed the jagged bit of metal to the side. It landed next to a severed foot, still clad in an argyle sock and a shiny loafer with a gold tassel.

He surveyed the damage. A few people were wandering about; about fifteen others were sprawled bloody or staring in a daze. Fire was licking up the side of the building, and people were streaming out of the doors. Greasy black smoke crawled across the sky. A dark-haired woman at the very far end of the street, near a small park, was using her shirt as a bandage for an elderly man. Her pale skin was painted with thin red streaks over the white of her bra. Close by on the pavement, a pram was on its side, two wheels slowly turning.

Methos sighed and went to look for the baby.

* * *

><p>When Connor heard the explosion, he was three blocks north of the hotel where the Phinyx convention was being held. Most people stopped in their tracks at the noise and looked at each in confusion. Connor knew what that sound meant.<p>

He was afraid he knew where it was.

He ran, weaving between people, concentrating on speed. A phone call made on the run got no answer. By the time he got to the explosion site, the outside of the hotel was wreathed in fire. Smoke poured out the windows on every floor—the bombers had been thorough. People were rushing out of all the doors on the ground floor, some of them stumbling, some helping others, some running. He didn't see Sara or Cassandra anywhere. Not in the crowds pushing past him, not in the bodies lying on the ground.

He didn't recognize any of the body pieces, either.

Connor breathed out slowly, unwinding the cold knot of dread inside, pushing down the panic that gibbered at the back of his mind. With studied practice, he moved into battle-calmness—alert, aware, and ready to move. Now to find Sara and Cassandra.

Connor headed for the hotel but had to step back as a fire truck came careering around the corner, its siren screaming. Fire fighters emerged from the vehicle, their bodies protected by firesuits and their faces hidden behind masks. They would need them; the skin on Connor's face was tight from the heat, even from forty feet away, and the smoke stung his eyes and his throat.

"Get away from the building!" a woman yelled, waving her arms toward a small park across the street. "Go on, go on, go on!"

People started moving in that direction, but Connor had caught the sense of an immortal, so he climbed up on top of a car so he could see better. After a few moments of scanning, he spotted Cassandra on the edge of the park, talking urgently to three other women. He leapt down from the car and ran toward her.

Cassandra saw him and called, "Sara's fine," as she came to met him halfway, and Connor's dread was melted by joy. Their handclasp was fierce with relief. Cassandra's smile was tremulous, though, and her face bore the marks of tears. "We were outside in this park when it happened," Cassandra went on to explain. She looked about them, biting her lip. "It was such a beautiful day."

Sara arrived next, running, and Connor opened his arms wide. "Sara," he murmured against her hair. Her arms were tight around his ribs, making it hard to breathe. Connor didn't mind.

"Rain check on lunch, I'm afraid," Sara said after a few moments.

"Yeah," Connor agreed, reluctantly letting go of her. There was work to do. Cassandra was already tending to a young woman with blood running down her face. Sara went to help. Connor began taking the people from the arms of the firefighters and carrying them to the park.

One black-haired woman didn't wait for the firefighters; Connor saw her jump from the third floor. As Connor ran toward her, she landed on an awning, tumbled down it, then landed hard on the street. She tried to get up, fell back, and started to crawl. Connor picked her up and jogged toward the park. Her face was drawn with pain, and with his every step she gave a small moan, forced out between her teeth. Connor slowed down a bit but kept moving.

Later, he wondered if that might have made a difference, if more speed might have kept her alive. Because when the second explosion happened, they were both lifted off their feet and tossed through the air. He lost his grip on her, hit something hard, and the world went black.

* * *

><p>Methos was still looking for the baby when another bomb exploded, or maybe it was a ruptured gas line catching fire. It didn't really matter. Windows shattered and glass went flying. At the end of the street, a fireball billowed outward and swallowed a car, a building, and several people.<p>

Methos went flat to the ground again. The pavement still felt cool, though the air was blistering. Then the hair on his arms started to prickle, and he looked up in alarm. Lightning beckoned, long crooked fingers sheathed in flame. It came for him, an inescapable partner in the dance of death. Methos swore and pushed his cane away, then clenched his teeth as the quickening of an unknown immortal hammered at his soul while lightning strip-mined his nerves.

When it ended, he was a quivering heap on the sidewalk, and he'd scraped the skin off his hands and knees. As the quickening settled, he tried to sense something of the immortal who had just died. Not a young one, he could tell. He sensed joy and sorrow and loneliness and contentment, the laugh of a child and the taste of an orange, a bit of rage and some pretty good sex, the usual mix of a life. A woman, he thought. He didn't catch a name.

He was almost positive it wasn't Cassandra.

When the twitching subsided, he opened his eyes to find a pudgy man with thick spectacles staring at him curiously. "Are you all right?" the man asked. "There was lightning…"

"Electrical transformer," Methos suggested, sitting up and hoping all the surveillance cameras had been fried. "Must have gotten hit by the bomb and gone a bit haywire. Odd thing, electricity, you know. I heard of a lightning bolt that chased a man across a churchyard."

The man looked less than convinced, and Methos couldn't blame him. "I think I lost my dog," Methos said vaguely then picked up his cane, hauled himself to his feet for the second time in ten minutes, and walked away. At the end of the block, he stopped to help at an impromptu first aid station. The missing baby, much too still, was being rocked in the arms of a middle-aged man. The young woman who had organized the station wore a silver Phinyx insignia pinned to the collar of her green and white tunic, which was already smeared with blood.

"Sister," Methos greeted her, and she looked him over and nodded once, her hands still busy with a bandage. "I can help," he offered, and she moved over to let him work. Soon, his clothes and hands were smeared with blood, too. A fine white ash was falling, like a deadly snow.

Behind them, the fires burned.

* * *

><p>When Connor came to, he found himself sprawled uncomfortably on top of a car. He wasn't sure if he'd died or just been knocked unconscious, but clearly some time had passed. Soldiers and police had arrived, and more fire trucks and ambulances were parked along the street. A camera crew was in the park, and a chopper circled overhead. That second explosion had set fire to the building across the street, and one of the fire trucks was burning. Bodies were laid out in rows beneath the trees, near were Sara and Cassandra had been working.<p>

The woman Connor had been carrying was not far away, crumpled in front of a concrete urn, which was smeared with red and a few strands of black hair. Her blood was an ugly blossom beneath the broken stalk of her body and her crushed skull.

Connor swore softly but resignedly. He tried to phone Cassandra and Sara but the phone just flashed "Connection not available" so he climbed down from the roof of the car.

A man carrying a jug of water in each hand looked at him in surprise. "I passed you by twice already, mate. Sorry. I thought you were dead."

"Just knocked out," Connor replied. He motioned to his jacket, which was a mess of red blood and white ash. "I've been carrying people. This isn't mine."

"Not many left to carry," the man said, with a quick glance at the building. "I'm taking water to the aid station."

"I can do that," Connor offered, eager to check in with Sara and Cassandra, and the man handed him the jugs and went to fetch more. Connor jogged past a bizarre statue of dancing rabbits, the gravel crunching under his feet. At the station, the water was all but snatched from his hands by a dark-skinned woman in a green tunic. "Have you seen Laina Garrison?" Connor called after her, betting that the Phinyx women knew each others' names.

She shook her head and kept going, but another woman heard and came over to Connor. "I'm Giselle," she said. Her eyes were dark brown and rimmed with red, and her long, wheat-colored hair was tied back with a strip of cloth. "Sister Laina's over here."

Connor followed Giselle to the line of trees where the bodies were laid out in rows, but the sense of another immortal was dim and he didn't see Cassandra. "Where?" he asked then realized Giselle was looking down.

Connor dropped to his knees, swallowing hard. He'd seen Cassandra dead before, but this was nasty. Her front was a mass of clotted black and liquid scarlet, and one side of her face was pretty much melted while the other side was covered in blood. He wouldn't have recognized her, except for her hair. A long copper braid lay neatly on top of the body, curling around her undamaged left hand.

"I'm sorry," Giselle said from above.

Connor nodded then stripped off his jacket and laid it on top of Cassandra, covering her face. An act of respect for the dead, an act of privacy for a healing Immortal. He stood and asked urgently, "Have you seen Sara MacLeod?"

"I don't know—"

"She goes by Sister Caorran," Connor broke in hastily.

"Oh, the councilor!" Giselle said. "Yes, of course I know who she is. But I'm sorry, I haven't seen her since early this morning."

Connor thanked her then tried to phone again and got nothing. Dread was coiling in the pit of his stomach again, cold and heavy. He shoved it away and forced himself to walk past the rows of the dead.

Sara wasn't there. Cassandra was still dead. Connor started to search.

Seventeen eternal minutes later, he found Sara sitting at the base of a tree, half hidden by some bushes. Her clothing and her hands were bloody. Her eyes were closed. Perhaps she had just taken a moment to rest, or maybe listen to the tree.

"Sara?" he called as he came near, but she didn't answer. He crouched by her side and touched her shoulder. "Sara."

Her eyes opened, she blinked and focused on him. "Hey," she said with a smile. The word was a hoarse whisper, but smoke had that effect.

"Hey," he answered, smiling back. He sat down beside her, feeling the rough bark against his back and the cool dampness of the ground. It was a good place to be.

She leaned against him with a sigh and said, "I love you, Daddy."

She hadn't called him Daddy in decades. "I love you, too, Princess." His voice was hoarse, but smoke had that effect.

"For ever," she added. "And for always."

She and Colin had come up with that saying when they were three or four years old, after an argument about which one meant a longer time. They'd finally agreed to use both, and they had, ever since. "For ever and for always," Connor agreed. He reached for Sara's hand. It was sticky with blood and cold.

"It's getting dark," she said, sounding surprised.

It was early afternoon. The sun was high. Connor turned to her just as she slumped over, falling halfway into his lap. "Sara?" he said, dread and panic flooding through him yet again. "Sara!"

Her eyes fluttered closed, and she had turned enough so that he could see the terrible wound. Her blood was flowing over his legs; her life was pouring out onto his hands. "Sara," he pleaded as his hands moved frantically, trying to stop the bleeding. "Sara, please… Sara…"

She died in Connor's arms.

* * *

><p><strong><em>Next: Methos, Connor and Cassandra cope in different ways<em>**


	18. Haunted

**London, England – Saturday, 17 October 2048**

* * *

><p>After the medics and police arrived at the bomb site and took charge, Methos went back to his hotel, scrubbed himself clean, slept, ate dinner, and then went looking for a bar. He wanted a noisy place, full of music and laughter and people flirting, maybe a game of darts in the corner. After all that death today, he wanted to be surrounded by life.<p>

Death followed, of course. There was no escape. People were talking about the bombing. Video and stills of burning buildings and injured people were on the vid screens and on people's phones. Methos ignored it all.

He ordered a beer and claimed a stool at the bar, half-standing, half-sitting, and let his gaze prowl the room. Tonight, with the energy of a quickening pulsing through him, he didn't need to pursue. Power was an aphrodisiac, and the women would come to him, like moths to a flame.

He picked her out when she came in with her friends: short and blonde, curvaceous and vivacious, and wearing a velvet choker necklace that matched the blue of her eyes. He dropped his usual camouflage of mild-mannered non-entity, and watched her with slightly narrowed eyes.

She flicked a glance at him and tossed back her hair. He kept watching, and soon enough she looked again. She circled to him, stopping to chat, looking at a vid screen, getting a drink, but ending up by his side, and then the flirtation began.

Methos waited until she had laughed at one of his jokes before he told her softly, "I know what you want."

"No, you don't," she said immediately.

He smiled, and with one finger lifted a tendril of her hair from her collarbone. He twirled her hair around his finger until it tightened, then pulled her to him. "Yes," he told her, his gaze never leaving hers. "I do."

Her eyes darkened and her lips parted, and she was his.

He took her to a hotel, but not the one where he'd registered as Dr. Kyle Winston. Tonight wasn't Dr. Winston's style. She had suggested going to her flat, but Methos didn't want to be faced with the details of her life, to sleep in her bed, or to see the pictures she hung on her walls. He never asked her name. She called him Sir. She liked that.

So did he.

"Please," she gasped, clad only in her high-heeled shoes and her blue velvet choker, for he had stripped her of everything else. "Sir, please."

"This is what you want," he told her, his mouth just behind her ear. He stood behind her, just barely not touching, save that his hands were clamped around her wrists, pinioning her arms high and wide against the wall.

"Yes," she agreed, pressing back against him. "Yes, it is. Please."

It was what he wanted, too. Methos closed his eyes and buried himself in her, surrounding himself with life.

* * *

><p>Cassandra woke but could not see. She could not breathe. She did not struggle, did not try to move. She knew better. She had been here before, many times.<p>

"Cassandra," he said, his voice gentle.

She tried to turn to him, that was what he wanted, but just that simple movement ripped her open and the pain flooded in, bloodwarm and pulsing, a red splintering haze. She let death take her, for she knew that after dying there would be no pain.

Later—she thought it was later—he said her name again. "Cassandra." She did not try to move. The pain found her anyway, leaping with every heartbeat, surging along her veins. She tried to swallow; her lips shattered and split. Thirst dug its claws into her throat from the inside and burst through her skin. She stopped her breathing, hoping to die. It took only a little while.

She heard water trickling, far away. She dreamed of dappled sunlight, golden light and soft green leaves, and a rivulet flowing cold and clear above smooth stones. Then rain fell, cold and stinging, every drop a needle piercing her skin. Water slashed and burned, scouring her flesh, and knives scraped her clean to the bone. Her screams were strangled moans, and she whimpered and twisted, trying to hide. Then his hands were on her, holding her down, and she knew she could not escape. She went limp and unresisting, trying desperately to hold still, but the knives came again, and she quivered and jerked with pain. The hands clamped tighter, cruel and unyielding, so when finally darkness came, blessedly empty and silent, she eagerly let herself drown.

The pain ebbed and flowed and ebbed again, as steady and irresistible as the tides. She burrowed deeper inside herself, hiding from it all. Finally, slowly, she swam upward, from utter blackness through hazy red pain and finally to gold. She did not try to open her eyes. Not yet. "Cassandra," he said, but this time she recognized the voice, and his scent was in the air.

"Connor," she whispered, or tried to. Her throat was still raw, though the vicious thirst was gone. Her tongue traced her lips, and found no taste of blood.

"Sleep," he told her. The press of his lips on the back of her hand was gentle, and brought comfort, not pain.

Cassandra slept.

* * *

><p>Connor was still holding Cassandra's hand when Duncan came back into the room. "How's her pulse?" Duncan asked.<p>

"Mostly steady," Connor said, feeling the movement of blood in her wrist. "But not strong." The skin from her forehead to her knees looked like pounded hamburger, and her right eyelid still had a slit in it. The white of her eye shone through, but none of her bones were showing anymore. "Her breathing seems good."

"I don't think she'll die again," Duncan said, "now all the dead tissue is gone."

That tissue hadn't magically disappeared. While she was dead, Connor had held her steady while Duncan had carefully scraped and peeled.

"Keeping her hydrated is the thing now." Duncan adjusted the flow to the IV drips in her arms. "She'll probably just sleep while she heals. I can stay with her," he offered. "If you want to—"

"Yes," Connor said immediately. He needed to get back to see Alea and Will. He carefully laid Cassandra's hand on the bed then stood, stretching his shoulders. "Let me know how she's doing."

"Of course." Duncan looked down at Cassandra and asked, "Shall I tell her?"

Connor had told Colin yesterday, a short and brutally hard conversation on the phone. He'd told Alea in person, after she'd arrived back at the hotel with her piles of shopping bags. She'd gone pale and said, "I need to call Dad," in a voice that sounded like a six-year-old girl, then disappeared into the sleeping room of their hotel suite and quietly shut the door.

Cassandra would want to know right away, and Duncan was good at that sort of thing. "Yes," Connor said. "Tell her."

He didn't think he could say it again.

Back at the hotel, Alea and Will were asleep. They lay side by side on the bed, facing each other, holding hands. Connor stood in the doorway and listened to their steady breathing, watched the slow rise and fall of their chests. Alea had cut her hair close to the scalp when she'd started Guardian training eighteen months ago, and her cap of black curls was a stark contrast to the white pillow. Will's hair was longer, the brown strands unbraided, some falling across his cheek. The brother and sister still looked a lot alike, though Will's face was starting to take on the stronger lines of manhood, and Alea's face, like her body, was rounded with pregnancy.

The baby would be born in a few months. Last night at the dinner no one ate, Alea had announced she was going to name her daughter after her mom.

"I think she should have her own name," Will had said. "So she can be her own person."

Sara had said that sometimes. Both her names came from people who had died long ago. For the last twenty years or so, she'd gone by Caorran. Only the family still used the name he and Alex had chosen for her.

"It's not like we need anything to remind us of Mom," Will had finished.

"No," his sister had agreed, and then, through tears, she had raised her glass, and the three of them had drunk a toast to Sara Heather MacLeod.

Connor walked into the room and kissed each of his grandchildren goodnight, closing his eyes each time.

Then he started the hunt for the bastards who had killed his daughter.

He started with a phone call. It was three in the morning, but he didn't really care. Besides, the Guardians were probably all awake anyway. And if they weren't, they ought to be.

Erika, who had been Tetrarch of the Guard and his occasional sparring partner at St. Hildegarde's, answered her phone after only two rings. She'd transferred to Paris two years ago and gotten a promotion, so Connor had been betting she'd be involved.

"Mike," Erika said in greeting. Her eyes were tired, and her short blonde hair was a mess, liked she'd been running her fingers through it. "I saw the death list. I'm so sorry about Laina."

Connor kept his face still and simply nodded his thanks. It had been a gruesome night, but Cassandra was going to be fine.

"Didn't you know Sister Caorran, too?" Erika said.

Connor drew a quick breath but answered evenly, "We're cousins."

"Yes, that's right. I'm sorry."

"Thank you." Now it was his turn to offer condolences. "Did you lose anyone?"

"We are all sisters," she said, the standard reply, then added, "Some colleagues, a former classmate. But no one particularly dear."

They both took a deep breath, and then Connor got down to business. "What do you know?"

"Nothing I can talk to you about."

"Dammit, Erika," he growled. "You must—"

"This isn't a secure line," she broke in. "And even if it were, you don't work for Phinyx now, Mike."

"So hire me." She looked tempted, so he added, "Special consultant. Cheap."

"Psych Eval won't like it," she said, shaking her head. "You're too close." She managed a wry grin. "But you'll be working it anyway, I know."

"We might as well coordinate," Connor pointed out, being rational and not too eager, showing her he could still do the job.

She interlaced her fingers and tapped her thumbs together a few times. "One thing first," she said finally.

"Name it."

"If we find the ones who did this, promise me you won't kill them yourself."

Leave the mortals to the mortal justice system. That was what he and Duncan and Cassandra had said, two years ago. It was a sensible rule. Pragmatic. Reasonable. And Connor was determined to stay calm and reasonable. Never lose your temper in a fight. "I promise," Connor said. As long as they died somehow.

* * *

><p>Methos woke to pre-dawn darkness and a naked woman in his bed. He roused her slowly, first to wakefulness and then to longing, with touch and tongue and whispered words, until she opened beneath him like a flower opening its petals to the sun. "Yes," she told him. "Now." Yet he took his time in kissing her, gently, for morning was a time for tenderness between lovers, as night was the time for the passion of strangers.<p>

"I want you," she told him, her fingertips exploring his face with careful wonder.

He looked down at her and smiled, then kissed her fingers one by one, before saying, "I know." She smiled back, saucy and sweet, then pulled him to her, into her, and whispered, "Now."

"Yes," he agreed.

Afterward, they slept, as the sky shifted from black to gray.

* * *

><p>When Connor went to meet Erika at sunrise, his path took him past St. Anne's Academy, the London campus of the Phinyx schools. Thick stone walls surrounded the grounds, and concrete flower pots had been artfully—and deliberately—arranged in front of the tall iron gates, preventing suicide cars from ramming through. None of that was new, but there was a trio of Guardians at the gate instead of only two, and through the gate he could see black bunting on the doors of buildings. A shrine of candles and flowers and pictures of the dead had grown up around the base of the oak tree in the green lawn.<p>

Connor didn't loiter at the gate; the Guardians were tense enough already. He met Erika at the small park across the street. She was sitting on a bench, reading her phone, and she stood when he came near. "Let's walk," she suggested. "I've gotten chilled sitting here."

They walked briskly on the path that wound between the flower beds of orange and gold chrysanthemums. In the center of the park stood a dry fountain with a statue of a nymph of some kind. This park didn't have any trees. No bodies laid out in rows. No blood soaking into the ground.

Connor focused on his footing, on the give and twist of the strands of bark underfoot, on how bits of it clung to his shoes. Mulch wasn't as noisy or as treacherous as gravel, but it could be slippery. He turned his head from the park and looked across the street at the houses, all lined up in a row with blind-staring windows and closed doors.

"What do you know?" he asked Erika again.

"Not much yet," she said but handed him a data chip. "Here is a list of groups and people who've given us problems over the last ten years." She sighed and hugged her arms to her body, shivering a bit. "Though Phinyx may not even have been the target. There was another convention at the hotel."

"Who?"

"Bankers."

"Ah." Not the most loved people in the world.

"Ah," she dryly agreed. "They're on the chip, too. I also included the preliminary reports on the explosion. Blast radius, debris, points of origin, that sort of thing."

"Good." Physical evidence could provide leads. "Was it—" He went silent as they came near a pair of blue-cloaked women walking in the opposite direction.

They greeted Erika as a sister and gave Connor a polite nod then passed by. "It's a stunning shot," one of the women said, her voice floating behind her.

"We should wide-cast it," the other replied. "It may help to…"

Her words faded out, and Connor went back to his question. "Was it only the one planned explosion?"

"We're not sure yet," Erika answered. "The second could have been simply a gas line, or it could have timed to take out the emergency responders."

A chillingly effective tactic, if so. "What's the death toll?"

"About two hundred, last I heard. Twenty-seven children. We had child-care at the conference."

Connor swore softly then demanded, "How the hell did this happen, Erika?"

"How the hell do you think it happened, Mike?" she demanded right back, stopping in her tracks. "We failed. We searched the building on Thursday: x-ray, thermal scan, dogs… We went through that place from sewers to skylights. We checked every person coming in this weekend, we watched the streets and we watched the rooftops, and we didn't do enough. Hundreds of people—half of them our sisters—are dead, and dozens more are burned or wounded, because we didn't do our jobs."

Erika's words had been evenly spaced and unemotional, but her fists were clenched and her jaw was quivering, and Connor recognized the mix of rage and guilt haunting her eyes. He'd seen it in many soldiers' eyes over the centuries, and in Duncan's eyes and Cassandra's eyes, and in his own.

"Erika," Connor began, reaching out a hand, but she turned and started walking again, her fists jammed into the pockets of her long gray coat. He caught up with her and they walked in silence for half the park.

"Nobody's actually saying we failed," she said, staring at the ground. "Everyone's being 'supportive.' But they're thinking it."

With reason. It wasn't the Guardians' fault, but it was their responsibility, and they had failed. Connor had blamed them, but only for a little while, because he knew damn well the hunter held the power. The hunter could sleep when he liked, while the hunted couldn't possibly be alert all the time.

"You can't win with defense, Erika," he told her. "If you're lucky, maybe you hold your own."

"And luck always runs out, eventually." She ran both hands through her hair, leaving it in tufts, then shook herself, like a dog coming out of water. Her head was back up, and her eyes were fierce again. "We've had enough of defense. We're going to war."

* * *

><p>When Cassandra woke again, it was Duncan who called her name.<p>

She answered but took her time opening her eyes, letting the light filter in until finally looking around. Duncan was sitting in a chair in the corner of the bedroom, a book in hand. Next to him stood an oak dresser with severely simple lines, its wood bleached to blond. The bed was equally plain, though the sheets were fine linen. Golden sunlight shown through white curtains and left a patch of brightness on the light blue wall. Through the open door, she could see a hallway leading to a bath and then a sitting room.

A plastic bag of blood and a half unit of saline solution hung from the bed's headboard, draining through tubes into the needles inserted in her arms. A rubbish bin next to the bed was filled with empty bags. She'd never thought Duncan's medical training would be useful to her.

"Welcome back," Duncan said with a gentle smile.

"Thank you," she said then cleared her throat and said it again. "Is it morning?" she guessed.

"Nearly eight o'clock," he confirmed. "Sunday," he added helpfully. "You've been sleeping for the past eight hours."

That much sleep meant she'd been dead—off and on—for about twelve hours. Most wounds healed in less than thirty minutes. Her insides still felt … jumbled, though her heart was beating steadily and she could breathe. She lifted the sheet to see. From her neck to her knees, her skin was bright pink and creased with delicate wrinkles, like an unfolding butterfly wing. She touched her face carefully and winced, finding the same type of skin there. It would probably take another day for her skin to fully heal.

Most people weren't so lucky as she. "How many died?" she asked.

"Two hundred and thirty-one," Duncan replied stolidly. "I'll bring you a phone so you can see the news." His mouth tightened in distaste. "I had to peel your phone off your arm."

Plastic melted into flesh. The "peeling" had probably involved knives. "Thank you, Duncan," she told him once more. "I'm truly in your debt. Again."

He shrugged, making light of his good deeds, as usual. "You came to pull me out of the ocean. And I needed new sheets anyway."

"So this is your flat?"

"Connor and I bought the property, two hundred years ago. We both use it, from time to time. "

"And Connor is...?" Suddenly, she wasn't sure if she'd dreamed him, along with the dappled stream.

"He was here, helping," Duncan said then explained, "While you were dead, we took off some damaged tissue."

Not quite dead enough, Cassandra thought, but Duncan didn't need to know. "Taking off" was a euphemism for debriding, which itself was a euphemism for scraping away charred muscle and skin. That burned smell lingering in the air wasn't from a roast left in the oven too long. "Thank you," she said again, and meant it.

"Connor left after you started sleeping," Duncan said, "to go be with Alea and Will."

"Oh." Cassandra was a bit surprised that Connor had left before she woke, but family came first, and Alea and Will were still young. Caorran had probably been working non-stop since yesterday afternoon. Phinyx had lost two of the nine councilors yesterday, the entire Sisterhood would be in mourning, and no doubt the Guardians were "going spare" trying to find out who had set the bomb.

Cassandra needed to get to her own safe house soon. There, she could take up her new identity as Elise Daugherty a little sooner than planned, and then get to work. "I should call Sara," Cassandra said, using Caorran's family name. "Would you please bring me that phone now, Duncan?"

"Cassandra," Duncan said, and he drew his chair closer to the bed. His dark eyes were serious as he took her hand in both of his. "Sara's dead."

"No, Sara's fine," Cassandra told him. "We were outside when the bomb went off. And she wasn't anywhere near me when the second explosion—"

"A piece of flying debris," Duncan said. "It lodged near her heart."

"No," Cassandra protested in a whisper. This could not be true. But Duncan's face, sad and knowing, told her that it was. Cassandra closed her eyes tightly and shook her head from side to side, trying to shut out sight and sound and the terrible knowledge, but Duncan hadn't disappeared.

"Connor was with Sara," he was saying. "At the end. She didn't die alone."

"Of course she did," Cassandra snapped at him, pulling her hand from his. "Everyone does. They die, and they leave us behind, and all of us—mortal and immortal alike—all of us die alone." The burst of rage evaporated, popped like a fragile bubble, leaving her defenseless, and before she could draw breath, the sorrow crashed down. Grief scoured all the color from the world and drowned her heart in tears.

"Oh, Connor," she whispered, because she knew that watching his daughter die would have shredded him from the inside. As she herself had been shredded, time and time again. As Duncan had been shredded, too, with the people he had loved.

"I'm sorry, Duncan," Cassandra said, reaching out to him. "I didn't mean to—"

"I know," he said shortly, gripping her hand tightly.

Cassandra welcomed that pain. That pain came from the outside. It would stop when he let go. But the pain inside…

Caorran was dead. Sara—little Caorran, the Rowan Berry—bright, stubborn, and fiercely loyal… her shining goddesschild was dead. Cassandra turned from Duncan and curled in on herself, crossing her arms tightly in a desperately lonely hug. "Oh, Goddess," she whispered, a prayer of anguish that had no answer. The dreams of smoke and fire had come terribly true. Tears came, spilling over, bitter and scalding on still-raw flesh. Cassandra wept.

Caorran was dead.

* * *

><p>Methos left the hotel room while the woman was still sleeping. He stopped in the lobby to have flowers sent to the room—blue and gold iris, to match her eyes and hair—and added a note saying, "You were what I wanted. Thank you."<p>

Out on the street, it was a fine Sunday morning on a fine autumn day, though the scent of smoke hung in the air and quite a few passersby wore masks over their mouth and nose. Still, people were walking, buses were passing, and pigeons were fluttering overhead and crapping on statues in the park. Life went on. Methos walked swiftly, hoping to make the final session of the convention.

He paused at a news kiosk at the corner, his attention caught by a photo that had automatically flashed as he walked by. He even swiped his phone charge so he could see it again. With the media's usual blithe disregard for the niceties of grammar, especially of foreign languages, it was captioned _Pieto_, for it showed a man cradling the body of a woman in his arms, in nearly the same pose Michelangelo had used for his sculpture of Mary holding Jesus.

The figures in the photograph might have been made of marble, for they were dusted with fine white ash. The background was blurred browns and greens, a suggestion of a timeless woodland. Only the blood was bright red, illuminated by a ray of sunshine that also highlighted the woman's face, while leaving the man's in shadow. Even so, the slumped lines of his shoulders and the bowing of his head spoke eloquently of anguish. He was holding her hand tightly, but his other hand lay open and empty, helpless.

Methos bent in for a closer look before his time expired and the picture disappeared, because this was a picture for the ages, like the Migrant Mother, the flag-raising at Iwo Jima, or the man facing the tank in Tiananmen Square. The caption didn't name the people in the picture, but Methos recognized the woman, and then he knew the man. Methos straightened, raising an eyebrow and letting out a low whistle.

It was a pity about Sara. Methos had found her intriguing forty years ago, and had hoped to have a chat with her this weekend. Cassandra had certainly doted on the girl. As for that picture… Methos shook his head as he started walking again.

Connor MacLeod was not going to be pleased.

* * *

><p>Duncan called Connor around ten in the morning from the lobby of their hotel. "She's awake," Duncan said, then: "I told her."<p>

"Yeah," Connor said, because he sure as hell couldn't say good. "Thanks."

"Yeah," Duncan murmured in return. "She said she'd like to see you later today."

"OK."

"How are Alea and Will?"

Connor glanced at the door to the sleeping room. "Still asleep." It was late, but teens needed sleep, and pregnant women did, too. He didn't want to wake them.

"About tomorrow...," Duncan began

Tomorrow morning they would go to the morgue with Alea and Will, claim Sara's body, and then go home to the Highlands. "Nine o'clock," Connor confirmed.

"Right." Duncan half-covered a yawn. "I'm coming upstairs now. I need some sleep."

"Sleep is good," Connor agreed. In a lot of ways. He'd gotten about two hours last night. Waking up was the hard part. Waking up and realizing, all over again, that Sara was gone.

A few minutes later Connor felt the arrival of an immortal. Duncan had given him advance notice, as usual, but Connor still reached for his sword and went to the door to confirm. They nodded to each other, briefly, then Connor went back to reading about bombs.

An hour later came a knock on the door. Connor checked the security view and swore. He folded his phone and snapped it around his wrist, then hauled himself to his feet and went to open the door.

Sara's ex-husband was standing in the hall, a suitcase in one hand. Daniel's hair had gone grey since Connor had last seen him, and he'd put on about twenty pounds. He wore glasses now. Behind the wire rims, his dark eyes were narrowed in confusion.

Connor wasn't worried that Daniel would recognize him. They hadn't seen each other in more than fifteen years, and Connor had been dying his hair gray and keeping it short back then, plus wearing very different clothes. Any resemblance to Daniel's deceased former father-in-law could be explained as a family resemblance.

"Sorry," Daniel said. "I think I have the wrong room."

"No, you don't," Connor told him, stepping back from the door. "Alea and Will are here."

Daniel came in warily. "Who are you?"

"Michael Audren," Connor said and would have added "Sara's cousin" but he could see that Daniel's confusion was sliding rapidly to recognition and then straight to suspicion, spiced with a bit of rage.

"Cousin Mike." Daniel bit out the name. He kicked the door shut behind him and set down his suitcase. Then he stripped off thin, black leather gloves, regarding Connor all the while. "What are you doing here?"

"Looking after Alea and Will. I've got a room down the hall."

"Alea didn't mention you," Daniel said. He walked in and took off his knee-length burgundy coat, then draped it over the back of the chair that Connor had been sitting in. Marking his territory. Taking charge. "Look … Audren," Daniel said, "I know this is a difficult time. But frankly, I'm surprised to find you in this room. With my children. Without my permission."

Connor had always appreciated Daniel's forthrightness and lack of fake smiles. He and Sara had been well-matched there. "Alea's a grown woman," Connor pointed out. "She makes her own decisions."

"Yes," Daniel said thoughtfully, his eyes narrowing again. "But Will's still underage. Is he the one you're interested in?"

It took Connor a moment to catch the meaning there. "You sorry son of a bitch," Connor breathed, taking a step toward the other man. "I would never—" He stopped then forced himself to dial down his outrage, while Daniel stood there, watching and judging. "No," Connor said. "Not Alea, either. Nothing like that."

After a moment, Daniel gave a grudging nod. "You must admit," he pointed out, "it does look a bit odd, an unattached man hanging about a woman and her children. So when Alea said you weren't going after my wife—"

"Ex-wife," Connor corrected grimly. "The woman you cheated on. The woman you walked out on." He thought, but didn't say: The woman who loved you and wept for months after you were gone. Sara wouldn't want Daniel to know.

"We had our problems," Daniel admitted, and a look of regret lingered in his eyes. "They started with her lies. I still don't know why she lied to me." He swallowed hard and blinked a few times before saying softly to himself, "I never will."

And Connor would never tell him.

Daniel was focused on Connor again, and his look was cold. "But even if you are a 'cousin,' Audren, I don't want you around my children. And I don't want you here."

Forthright as hell, and brave and stubborn, too. Even in the midst of his anger, Connor could admire the man. He relaxed his fingers, forcing fists to turn back into hands. "Look, Daniel," Connor began, but then the door to the sleeping room banged open, and Will rushed past and flung himself at his dad.

Alea was next, moving with a heavy grace, and then the three of them were enmeshed in a tangled hug. "Daddy," Will said, his voice muffled, and then he was openly weeping, and Alea joined in, something they had never done in front of Connor. Daniel sank to the floor with his children, rocking them in his arms, his eyes tight and his face twisted, and his face was wet with tears.

"Daddy," Alea whispered. "Oh, Daddy."

"Shhh," Daniel said, kissing the top of her head. "I'm here, sweetheart. I'm here."

Connor swallowed hard then walked out and left the family alone.

* * *

><p>Cassandra opened to the door to the flat then opened her arms, and Connor came to her. They held each other tightly, his face buried in her hair. His breathing was uneven, a great shuddering breath followed by frozen silence, then a careful and controlled letting go. And then again. She said nothing, simply held him. She knew that Connor hated to cry.<p>

She also knew that a death this sudden and traumatic piled shock on top of grief, and Connor had never lost a child in this way. She would not ask Connor for comfort today, though she longed to weep in his arms. She would comfort him.

After a time, his breathing steadied then he finally relaxed his hold. He rested his forehead against hers for a moment before stepping back. "You're bleeding," he said.

Cassandra looked down. The front of her robe was spotted with blood where the fragile skin had cracked. Again. "It'll be alright," Cassandra replied. Maybe by tonight she could take a bath. Maybe by then the infernal itching would have stopped. "Duncan said I should keep drinking to rehydrate. Would you like some tea? Or something else?"

Connor shook his head so Cassandra got herself a glass of water from the kitchen. Connor had moved to stand in front of the window in the sitting room, but his stare was unfocused. He hadn't shaved, and his braids needed to be redone. He had changed his clothes. His tunic was unadorned black, save for the red lacing at the throat, and his trousers were plain brown … mourning attire.

As Cassandra neared, he turned to nod at the bag he had set down near the door then said, "I brought your things from the hotel."

"Thank you," she replied. She needed toiletries, and she could use the clothes to travel to her safe house, though she wouldn't wear them after that. Elise's tastes in fashion were vastly different than Laina's had been.

Cassandra stood next to him in front of the window and took his hand. It was warm, but there was no strength in his grip. In the narrow street below them, an old man walked by, unsteady with his cane. A sparrow pecked for crumbs then flew to the flower boxes on the roof of a tea shop.

"How are Alea and Will?" she asked.

"Quiet," came the quiet response.

"Yes," she murmured. That ran in the family. "And the baby?"

"Fine."

"That's good," she said. That child would be even more precious now.

"Daniel's here," Connor told her. "With Alea and Will."

"Oh, yes. I'd forgotten about Daniel," Cassandra admitted.

"Alea called him yesterday, first thing."

Cassandra could feel his fingers twitching slightly within her hand. She took a deep breath before venturing, "So he's coming to the funeral?"

"I suppose." Connor's jaw flexed. "It'll be in the Highlands at the farm, Tuesday or Wednesday. I'll let you know. Oona's making the arrangements."

Cassandra nodded slowly at the ancient tradition: the women of the family took care of the lying in and the laying out. Births and deaths. The beginning and the end. "How's Colin?" Cassandra asked, for to lose a twin was to lose part of oneself.

"Silent."

That, too, ran in the family.

"How are you doing?" Connor asked, turning to her.

Like her skin: fragile and barely holding together while bleeding on the inside. Not just for Caorran; Cassandra had counted thirty-two people she knew on the list of the dead. But Connor didn't need to hear that, not today. "Coping," Cassandra answered.

Connor nodded and squeezed her fingers. They stood in silence again, hand in hand, and looked out the window at nothing.

When her water was gone, she tugged at his hand and let him to the bedroom. "Hold me?" she asked, because Connor was at his best taking care of others, and he needed to give before he would allow himself to receive. Cassandra moved cautiously to lie down on top of the covers, and Connor joined her there. They held each other in another silent embrace, her head on his shoulder, their legs and fingers intertwined.

The patch of sunshine slid across the floor.

"I'm so sorry, Connor," Cassandra said, her head resting in the hollow of his shoulder. She felt his swallow and then his nod. But he said nothing, so she tried knocking on the locked door of his grief. "Duncan said you were with her, at the end?"

Another nod, but more silence. Cassandra would have to open that door herself. It would do him good to talk, and Cassandra wanted to know. "Did she say anything?"

"She called me Daddy." He cleared his throat. "I should have realized then…"

He should have realized, he should have helped her, he could have saved her. Cassandra knew that litany of guilt and responsibility well. "Did she know?" Cassandra asked. "That she was going to die?"

"I think so." Connor spoke then, haltingly, of his daughter's last moments, of what she had said, of thinking she was fine, of the sudden gush of blood, of trying to help.

Of feeling her die.

He cleared his throat again. "I held her," he said. "Until Duncan came, with Will… She was growing cold by then. He…" Silence, for the space of three heartbeats, then: "He called her Mommy," Connor finished. "So I had to let her go."

He stopped talking, his jaw clenched tight, his eyes closed. Cassandra dried her own tears before he could see them then began, slowly, to kiss his away.

* * *

><p>Connor woke to a dim room and a bleak world. Sara was dead. He closed his eyes, hoping to escape back into sleep, back into forgetfulness, if only for a little while. But sleep didn't come, and Cassandra woke and shifted against him. They both lay quietly, dry-eyed and holding hands. The silence was welcome. He'd talked enough.<p>

After a long while, she drew a deep breath, let it out as if preparing for battle, then suggested, "Tea?"

He didn't want tea. He didn't even want whisky. But he supposed he should get up, and he should probably have something to drink. "Yeah," he said. "Thanks." In the kitchen he sat at the table, staring at nothing, while she put the kettle on.

"Would you like something to eat?" she asked him.

"No."

"Duncan said I should eat," she said next.

Connor looked up. She was standing in front of the stove with her hands down by her side, watching him. "Then you should eat," Connor agreed. She rummaged in the kitchen and moved the pots and pans about. After a while, she put a complete tea tray in front of him, complete with cup and saucer and spoon, a pot of tea inside a knitted cozy, and a bowl of sugar and a pitcher of milk.

A mug with a teabag would have been fine. He poured his tea and took a sip then set it down. It tasted of nothing.

Grief could do that, Connor knew. He and grief were no strangers. With Rachel and Heather and Alex, he'd known for a long while that the end was coming; they'd had time to prepare, to say goodbye. With Brenda, there'd been no time at all, just a sudden swerve on a rain-slick road with Brenda swearing in the seat next to him, and then that shattering collision. She'd been dead when he'd found her. He'd been the one to swear then, cursing God in his heaven and all of earth below. He'd lost others through the years: parents, friends, comrades-in-arms, lovers…

And every time, it hurt. Every time, grief would come, silent as a thief, stealing color and savor from the world, sliding a narrow blade deep in your heart and leaving it there. It had no handle, that blade. You couldn't pull it out. You had to wait until it worked its way out, twisting and cutting and hurting every damn time it moved. The scars from that blade never truly healed.

That grief, Connor knew.

But this time, with this grief, he couldn't feel that blade. He couldn't feel his heart. He felt … hollow inside, as if his heart had been twisted loose by an iron hand and then ripped out of his chest. It hurt to breathe.

Cassandra sat down at the table and started to eat. He didn't watch but he could hear: chewing sounds, a fork scraping on a plate, a knife clattering on a dish. She had a good appetite. Finally, the noises stopped. Connor focused on the one thing he could savor: avenging Sara's death. "I saw Erika this morning," he told Cassandra.

"Erika the Guardian from St. Hildegarde's?" Cassandra asked, her mug of hot chocolate in her hand. She had a thin chocolate mustache on her upper lip, dark brown against the sunburned look of her skin.

What other Erika would he be calling? "She gave me information on the bomb and a list of possible suspects," he said. "After she hired me as special consultant." Cassandra's eyebrows went up at that, and Connor leaned forward to explain. "There were nine bombs on around the perimeter of the second floor, and four in the interior," he said. "Each small enough for one person to carry, but taken together..."

Taken together, they'd taken out one floor and trapped the people above. Whoever had placed them had studied the architecture of the building. They'd had other engineering help, too. "I'm going to get some of the incendiary material and take it back to the lab for analysis. That could provide leads." He would have told Cassandra more, but she had set down her fork and knife and was staring at her plate, her lips tight.

Connor stopped talking. It was too soon. Too much. Cassandra was still healing, and she wouldn't understand half of what he was talking about anyway.

She stood, a wan, apologetic smile flickering on her lips then dying away. "Are you done?" she asked, motioning to his tea.

He'd had only that one sip, but the tea had gone cold. He nodded, and she carried the whole tray to the sink and poured the tea down the drain before clearing her own dishes away. "I'd like to wash now," she said, standing in front of the stove again, her hands fluttering in front of her blood-spotted robe.

Connor nodded and went to the sitting room. He read more of Erika's report, making notes and looking up details on the web, as water gurgled through pipes now and again.

The picture first appeared in a scrolling sidebar. He noticed the splash of color at the center: a splash of crimson, bright as rowan berries against white snow. He looked at it long enough for it to grow, filling the screen, and then suddenly red filled all his world.

That was Sara's blood.

That was Sara, in his arms. His daughter, dead.

Connor's hands were shaking, and he drew a trembling breath. Who the hell had taken that? And then posted it on the web for all the world to see? How could they? How _dare_ they?

He scanned the nearby text, looking for a name, but found nothing. A search returned the picture a dozen times, different sizes, different sites. "Holy Mother of God," he prayed with mounting dread, then searched again. The picture was everywhere, on page after page, being forwarded to friends and shared. Connor felt sick. Nothing could stop it now.

Sara was being identified only as "one of the victims of the bombing." His face wasn't visible, and he wasn't identified at all, but Connor knew it was only a matter of time. Webhunters were persistent and legion.

He found the photographer's name, eventually. Raelle was twenty-three years old and French. She had come to London for a reunion.

The Phinyx reunion. The picture was on the Phinyx home page.

He was still staring at it in dumbfounded rage when Cassandra finally emerged from the bathroom and called, "Would you like something to eat now?"

He jabbed his finger at the screen and demanded, "Have you seen this?"

Cassandra came over and looked down. "Oh," she said softly. Her hand went to her mouth, and she shook her head slowly back and forth. "Oh, Connor."

"It's everywhere," he told her bitterly. "On every feed." Bloody vultures, feeding on other people's pain. He left the phone on the table and stood, pacing between the window and the wall. "The damn thing's gone viral."

Cassandra had picked up the phone, and she was looking at the screen. "It is a powerful image."

Image? It wasn't some artistic creation, dreamed up by some clove-smoking dilettante with wild hair who picked colors for symbolism or some abstract post-modernist urge. That red was blood. That "image" was his daughter, dying in his arms. That was Sara, dead.

"Perhaps … it may help," Cassandra added, looking up.

Connor stopped pacing and turned to her in disbelief. "What the hell does that mean?"

"Just that… some images have helped to turn the tide of a war." She shrugged one shoulder. "A powerful picture can change the mood of a people. Perhaps this might discourage more bombings." She looked down again, cradling the phone in her left hand while the fingers of her right hand reached out, as if to touch the damn thing.

Connor took two quick steps and slapped the phone from her hands. It skittered along the floor. Cassandra looked up and met his gaze unblinkingly. Her eyes were wide; her face was calm.

"Is that all this is to you?" he asked, quiet and fierce.

She shook her head, just a little."I don't under—"

"That picture is on Phinyx's home page." She must have noticed that. "The photographer," he added, "is one of _you_."

That last word whiplashed out, but Cassandra just shook her head again and said quietly, "I didn't know."

"Maybe not," he allowed. But that meant nothing. In fact, that made it worse. She didn't even have to give orders or make suggestions. Phinyx was her creation, and the women in it had been created in her image. Just like those blue-cloaked women in the park this morning, he realized, and gave a brutal bark of laughter at his own blindness.

"You've already made it just another part of your grand plan to change the world," he said, seeing it now. "You and your precious foundation." Blood-lapping harpies, the lot of them. Ready to use anyone and anything to further their goals.

He'd seen that before. Clearly, Cassandra had trained her disciples well.

"Are you saying," she asked him, now acting confused, "that you think I wanted Sara to die?"

"No," he replied coldly. "I think you don't even care." She hadn't talked about Sara today. Cassandra hadn't even cried.

He stood there, fists clenched and heart pounding, waiting for her to deny it—desperate for her to deny it—but all she did was to look back at him and not say a word. After a long, silent moment, he cursed her viciously in Gaelic for a cold-hearted bitch then turned and slammed his way out the door, cursing himself for a fool.

* * *

><p>Only when his footsteps had faded did she dare to breathe, but she didn't move. First, she needed to figure out what she had done wrong. She'd been too long in the washroom, she knew. Men hated that. But it had been so hard to get clean. Her robe had been bloody on the inside, and threads and lint had grown into the healing skin. Picking them out caused more cracking, and she'd been peeling, too, leaving flakes of dead skin everywhere. She'd also washed her hair twice, trying to get rid of the smoky smell.<p>

None of that mattered; she should never have left him alone that long.

And when he'd spoken of the bombers, she should have asked him questions and shown interest in what he was interested in. But the gleam in his eye had been wolfish in its hunger, and it had frightened her, so she had looked away. She shouldn't have. He was the one who had suffered the most; she should be helping him, not giving into her silly fears. She should be less selfish.

The time in the bedroom had gone well, she thought. He had seemed pleased with her, and they had fallen asleep together, which was a good sign. True, she hadn't offered him sex, but there had been no passion in him. She had read him correctly there. And she had offered him food and drink, several times.

But her biggest mistake today was the picture. She should have listened, not talked. He was obviously upset about it, and she had argued with him instead of agreeing. No wonder he'd gotten so angry with her. Although … he hadn't hit her, even though his fists had been ready. He'd only hurt her with words.

So far. Perhaps the pain would come when she apologized. Or maybe not. She wasn't sure. But if she did her best and pleased him, maybe he would forgive her, maybe he would only hit her a few times, and then it would be over. She didn't want him to be angry with her anymore.

She washed and dried the dinner dishes then put everything neatly away. She tidied the bathroom and packed her things. In the bedroom, she emptied the trash, changed the sheets, and made the bed. Then she stood in the middle of the room for a long moment, doing nothing.

Slowly, she walked back into the bathroom then stared at the woman in the mirror. The woman whose only thought was to please the man, no matter how much pain she was in or what he did to her. The woman who had no right to anger. The woman who asked permission for everything. The woman who wouldn't defend herself in any way.

The tamed one.

The slave without a name.

"Hello again," Cassandra said to the woman in the mirror, the woman she'd thought she had exorcised from her soul. "Hello, me."

* * *

><p><strong><em>Continued in "Freefall" - Connor on the prowl<br>_**


	19. Freefall

**London, England – Sunday, 18 October 2048**

* * *

><p>"You've had enough, mate," the stocky bartender said with a shake of his balding head.<p>

Connor considered arguing with him. Or maybe hitting him. Or maybe picking up his stool and bashing the fellow in the corner, who was talking too loud. That might start an all-out, old-fashioned barroom brawl in this dark and crowded pub, complete with people crashing into tables and bottles being smashed over heads, and then he could go down swinging.

Instead, Connor picked up his empty shot glass and tilted it this way and that, watching the last lonely drop of golden liquid roll around the bottom. "Just one," Connor said, going for persuasion instead of argument. "A single this time. Then I'll go."

"Tea, coffee, or water," the bartender countered.

"I'm not driving," Connor added, but the bartender knew that already. No one drove in London anymore. It was all taxis and trams and the tube.

"I'm not worried about you driving on the street; I'm worried about you puking on my floor. I'm not keen on cleaning it up."

"An excellent point," Connor had to acknowledge then gave in. "Water."

His shot glass went away; a glass of water appeared. Connor drank it then walked to the men's room in the back of the bar and took care of business. Then, in a semi-quiet corner of the hallway, he called Duncan.

"How's Cassandra?" Duncan asked.

Cassandra was a cold-hearted, scheming bitch. But that was nothing new. "She's fine," Connor replied. She was coping.

"Is she drinking enough? Did she eat?"

"Yes." Before Duncan the medic could quiz him about Cassandra's blood pressure or bowel movements, Connor asked, "How are Alea and Will?"

"I saw them with their dad in the hotel restaurant. They were both eating."

That was an improvement. "Good," Connor said.

"Connor," Duncan said next, "come back to the hotel."

Connor didn't answer.

"All right," Duncan said evenly. "I'll come to you. What bar are you in?"

Connor didn't know.

Duncan sighed. "Connor…"

"I'll be there," Connor replied. "In a bit. I'm going to walk."

"OK," Duncan agreed after a moment. "I'll leave the light on for you."

At that trite expression of welcome, Connor abruptly found himself struggling with a smile and with tears. He leaned his forehead against the rough concrete wall, breathing carefully and with great control. Then he thanked Duncan in Gaelic, to make it real, and Duncan answered in kind.

Connor put away his phone and went back to the bar. The barkeep regarded him warily, but Connor asked for coffee, and that came quick enough. He could use the caffeine before he went outside; immortals might be on the prowl. The coffee was hot and black and bitter, and he drank it straight down. His tip was more than generous, and cash instead of card.

The bartender pocketed it swiftly, with a silent nod. "Whatever it is," he said as Connor stood to leave, "the drink won't help you to cope."

Cope.

What the hell did "coping" mean anyway? Struggling? Dealing with it? Or turning tragedy to your own advantage?

A coping saw cut odd and intricate angles in the wood. To cope a falcon was to clip its talons and its beak, leaving it defenseless.

Cope. What a fucking stupid word.

"Nothing will help," Connor told the bartender then pushed his way through the crowd of people, trying to get to the door. He was hemmed in by a dozen others when he sensed an immortal. He swore under his breath, and a middle-aged woman with green hair and one earring gave him a haughty glare.

Connor let himself be carried by the crowd, using it as camouflage. But in a tight corner near the doorway, jammed in with somebody's elbow in his ribs, he came face to face with Methos, the oldest immortal alive.

"Fancy meeting you here," Methos said, sounding chipper.

Connor didn't fancy meeting him at all.

"I'm sorry," Methos said, suddenly growing serious."I heard about your daughter."

No one else had called her that.

"She was … fiercely wonderful, from what little I saw," Methos said. "I wish I'd known Sara better."

No one else called her by her name. Connor's throat tightened and his eyes burned, and he dug his nails into his palms, clutching at pain to keep the tears away. It wasn't enough, so Connor summoned black rage from a deep and enduring well. "Sod off," Connor snarled then shoved his way out the door, getting outside just in time to breath in great gulps of cold air.

He started walking, hands in his pockets and his head down. The wind was damp and smelled of the sea, and the sun was gone.

Darkness had come.

* * *

><p>Cassandra woke in darkness. She did not move or open her eyes. She was in her bed in her new flat. She was alone. No one was touching her. No one was holding her down. The dream was over. She was fine.<p>

Cassandra sat up in bed and pressed the heels of her palms against her eyes. She hadn't had a dream like that in decades, but she suspected she'd be having them for the next month or so. Or maybe the next year.

She shuddered as revulsion uncoiled within her, spreading to all her limbs, its roots sucking life from a dark pit of dread. She didn't want to go through this again. She didn't want those dreams. She wanted to burrow back under the covers and escape back into sleep. She wanted to wake up in a different world, a world where yesterday had never happened, a world where Caorran was still alive.

But she couldn't, and she knew that, and she knew life had to go on. She also knew she wouldn't be getting back to sleep anytime soon. Cassandra flung the covers aside and got out of bed. She was hungry, but there was nothing in the kitchen. She dressed in the darkest clothes in Elise's wardrobe: grey trousers and a dark green top—mourning clothes. Outer symbols of inner pain. Right now, the grief was less piercing, more of a bone-deep ache. Grief would bring out its knives again, she knew, stabbing unexpectedly, any time and any place, stopping the breath and ripping open the heart, and she would drown in sorrow again. And still life would go on.

Cassandra braided her hair and hid it under a hat, pulled on a cloak, and headed out into the night. She found a pub and ordered half a pint and curried lamb stew. Cassandra was almost finished eating when the vidscreen on the wall announced the identity of the people in "the Pieto picture from the horrific bombing yesterday afternoon." The name Karen Harulfsen appeared in front of a ten-year-old photo of Caorran, while the man in the picture was "said to be the ex-husband, in town for the weekend."

Cassandra breathed a sigh of relief and sipped at her beer. A few hours ago, she'd called her contact in Phinyx's department of propaganda and made a suggestion, and the "facts" had been posted right away. Some people might quibble if they looked into Daniel's itinerary, but the "tragic love" storyline would become the accepted version quickly enough, and once a story took root, it was harder to eradicate than weeds.

She left the pub and went walking, past hospitals and museums and rows of houses. The moon was high in the sky and nearly full, she knew, but it was hidden behind thick scudding clouds. The air was cool and tasted of rain to come. She went south to the river, then watched the water flowing to the sea, thinking of what had gone wrong that day.

Connor's visit had started out as well as could be expected. He'd been irritable, but she'd expected that. Anger at death spilled over in many ways, and Connor wasn't himself right now. She wasn't herself right now, either.

No. That wasn't true. She was herself, the self she didn't want to be. "Hello, me," she murmured again. After the nightmares and the multiple deaths, she'd fallen into age-old patterns, waiting on him hand and foot, even asking for his permission to eat or to bathe. Then, when he had grown angry over the picture, she'd retreated into pathological submissiveness.

Cassandra sighed. It was a depressingly familiar dance, and she didn't ever want to do it again. She carefully identified each trigger and its cause, so that she could be more aware next time. Connor needed to understand, too. Tomorrow, she would explain. Duncan could vouch for her grief. Connor would be more reasonable, and then they could mourn Caorran together and try to heal.

Cassandra sent Connor a message, to let him know she wanted to talk, and then went walking again. Her path took her past the palace and then to the site of the attack from yesterday. Her footsteps slowed, but Cassandra kept going.

Caution tape cordoned off the ruined hotel, and the reek of smoke and burning hung in the air. The park was empty now. Offerings to the dead had been placed at the base of a fence. One of the hares in the bronze sculpture wore a scarf from St. Hildegarde's wrapped around its ears. A dozen trees stood tall and silent. In the dim light, their golden leaves looked pale as ash. Cassandra went from each to each, laying her hand upon the bark and listening to the heartbeat of the trees. They were young ones, not even three centuries, but their roots dug deep and their branches spread wide, and they spoke to her of heat-warmed soil and cool rain, of the nibbling of earth worms and the tickling of sparrows, of the quiet sleep of winter, and the coming of the spring.

When she found the tree where Caorran had died, Cassandra knelt and leaned forward, touching the earth with both hands and bowing her head to the ground. Her tears watered the earth, and three times she whispered Caorran's name. Cassandra placed a small candle on the ground and lit it, then leaned her back against the great trunk of the tree. The flame glowed in the darkness, touched now and again by a gust of wind, as she called forth memories of Caorran, cherishing each one. An infant in her arms, a little girl playing with kittens, a young woman dancing in her father's arms, Caorran trying on clothes, arguing about politics at council, a teenager in love, a colleague, a sister, a friend.

A daughter of her heart.

* * *

><p>Methos wasn't surprised when Duncan called. Nor was he surprised by what Duncan had to say. "I'm sorry; I can't make it," Duncan said. They had planned to go horse-back riding in Devon. "Family emergency."<p>

"Yes, I saw," Methos said. He sat down on the edge of the bed in his hotel room. "I'm sorry about Sara."

"Thanks." Duncan rubbed a hand along his jaw. "Connor's taking it hard."

Methos had to bite into his lip to keep from commenting on the elder MacLeod's foul mood. He'd gotten the whip-end of it in the bar. He said merely, "Losing a child hurts like hell."

Duncan blinked, his eyes lost in memory and his mouth tight with pain. He refocused and said, "Yeah."

They would have to talk about that sometime. Methos would like to know how many children Duncan had raised. But first: "I saw Laina Garrison's name on the list of the dead. How's Cassandra?"

"She was burned pretty badly in the second blast, but she's healed now."

Ergo, she still had her head Unlike another still-unknown immortal. Methos hadn't recognized any of the other names on the casualty list, but that meant nothing. And there was nothing to be done about it anyway.

"We're going to the Highlands tomorrow for Sara's funeral," Duncan said.

"I'm heading to Sheffield," Methos announced.. "I met a fellow at the conference who invited me to tour his facility there."

"Not that far away," Duncan observed.

Far enough.

"I'll call you," Duncan promised.

Getting closer all the time. "Good," Methos said.

* * *

><p>As Connor walked through the dark streets of Soho, a song kept running through his head.<p>

_Little old lady got mutilated late last night. Ahoooo-yeah._

It wasn't raining. Not yet. He hadn't seen any werewolves in London, either, even though it was past midnight, and the moon was close to full. No immortals, either. Just the robo-rubbish collectors and the occasional cat prowling the streets.

_If you hear him howling around your kitchen door, better not let him in._

On one particularly long car trip, seven-year-old Colin and Sara had sung the howling part from this tune. Over and over and over again. They'd thrown their heads back and pointed their faces upward and howled, then collapsed into giggles. Then they did it again. Alex had just laughed and howled with them, and eventually Connor had joined in, but giving voice to the howls he'd heard when he was young, when real wolves prowled outside. The kids had gone quiet, listening, their eyes wide.

Forty-five years ago.

_He'll rip your lungs out, Jim. _

It hurt to breathe. Connor leaned his back against a cold wall of brick and called Duncan. "I'm still walking," Connor said. He'd been walking for two hours, going nowhere.

"The light's still on," Duncan said. "But I'm going to bed."

"I'll be there soon," Connor told him. He'd wandered enough.

But on the way back to the hotel, cutting through one of the many parks in the city, Connor ran into someone else prowling late at night. He was young, perhaps mid-twenties, wearing plaid trousers and a dark jacket. His beard was clipped short, and so was his hair. He walked straight up to Connor, as if recognizing an old friend, then said calmly, "I'll have your money."

"No, you won't," Connor replied, just as calm.

"I will," the other replied, and a length of heavy pipe appeared in his hand.

Connor briefly considered pulling out his sword, but this was only a mortal. Besides, Connor didn't want to nick the edge. Instead, he settled into fighting mode—alert yet relaxed, a place of stillness at his core yet instantly ready to move. "Get out of my way," he warned.

For answer, the would-be thief jabbed at Connor's midsection with the end of the pipe. Connor pivoted to the side, getting away from the weapon but close to his opponent, and chopped with the knife-edge of his hand on the man's wrist, a swift and numbing blow. The pipe clattered to the ground as Connor stepped back and away. If Pipe-boy had any brains, he'd back away too, and they could each go on their way.

He didn't have any brains. He picked up the pipe and threw it at Connor's head. Connor ducked, but the pipe was spinning and the jagged edge caught him just above the right eye, and then Pipe-boy charged, screaming curses and with fists held low. Half-blinded and tasting his own blood, Connor snarled with laughter as he let loose the fighter inside.

The next few minutes were all grunts and punches and blows, with swearing on both sides. Connor got an elbow to the face, and he gave a supremely satisfying punch to the jaw that sent Pipe-boy staggering back and down. Connor went after him, ready for more.

From the ground, Pipe-boy kicked out and caught Connor just below the kneecap with the sharp edge of his boot heel. Connor grunted in pain, then hauled the thieving bastard up by the collar and swung him around, slamming Pipe-boy up against a lamppost and holding him there.

Pipe-boy hawked and spat out a mix of blood and spit then smiled crookedly and gasped out, "You motherfucking daughter-fucker."

Connor bared his teeth in a fierce and hungry smile. Then he let go with his right hand and punched the man just beneath the ribs, driving his fist deep. As Pipe-boy doubled over with a wheeze of tortured air, Connor yanked down with his left hand as he lifted up with his knee, breaking the man's nose and smashing his lips against his teeth.

Connor released his hold, and Pipe-boy slumped to the ground, panting in hoarse grunts. He started to pull himself up, hanging onto the lamp post. Connor waited until Pipe-boy was on his knees, then kicked him in the lower ribs. Something crunched, and Pipe-boy screamed. Connor smiled through bloody lips and kicked Pipe-boy again. He merely gurgled that time, lying on the ground.

It was then that Connor sensed another immortal, flickering at the edge of sensing range. He immediately pulled his sword and turned, zeroing in the immortal. Cassandra was standing in the park, her hands at her side, her face composed. Cassandra looked at the man he had beaten, and then she looked at him. In the dim light, everything was shades of black and white and gray. Her mouth was a thin dark line.

_He's the hairy-handed gent who ran amuck in Kent. Better stay away from him._

Connor stood there, his hands sticky with blood and cold, his weapon in his hand and his enemy vanquished at his feet, and stared back. She had no right to judge him. She had no right to disapprove.

He didn't give a fuck what she thought, anyway.

For a long, silent moment they watched each other; then Cassandra backed up a good five paces before turning on her heel and walking away.

* * *

><p><em>Continued in "Unusual Suspects" - Connor's investigation takes an unexpected turn<br>_


	20. Unusual Suspects

**London, England – Early Monday morning, 19 October 2048**

* * *

><p>By the time Connor reached the park next to the bombed hotel, a light rain was falling. He sat at the base of the tree where Sara had died. A small white puddle glistened off to the side. He leaned over to touch it and felt the smooth hardness of wax. Someone had held a vigil here, lit by a candle flame. Perhaps there had been singing, too. Perhaps a group of girls.<p>

Connor kept vigil in darkness and silence, alone.

The rain stopped. The night grew cold. A cat prowled by, padding silently through the grass. From a safe distance, it sat and regarded Connor solemnly, its eyes round and dark against pale fur. Then it walked away.

Fog arose, cold wisps of gray. An immortal came, walking slowly, and as soon as Connor recognized Duncan he let his hand fall away from the hilt of his sword. His kinsman sat beside him at the base of the tree, their shoulders almost touching, their beards and hair misted with tiny silver droplets. Rain came again, slanting sideways with each gust of wind, then slowed and stopped. Gradually, dark gray turned to lighter gray turned to pale grey, until somewhere beyond the clouds, the sun rose and morning came.

Another damn day.

"You look like hell," Duncan said.

Connor looked down. Shoes muddy, trousers dirty and torn, blood on his shirt and on his hands. He hadn't shaved or eaten or slept or combed his hair. "You should see the other guy," Connor said.

Duncan gave a half-grunt. "After Darius died, I got into a fight with a couple of skinheads in a bar. I wanted to hit somebody, and I didn't much care who."

"Did you kill anybody?"

Duncan shot him a wary glance. "No. Richie stopped me. Did you?"

"No." But he could have. The other guy was in hospital with a broken nose, two broken ribs, and probably a ruptured spleen. Connor had called for help then listened from a distance to the medic's field diagnosis.

Connor's teacher had often warned him: don't lose your temper in a fight, and Connor hadn't. He hadn't been angry or drunk or blind with battle-lust as he beat the other man bloody then kicked him when he was down.

He had been enjoying himself.

It had been deeply satisfying to hit someone and to have them hit back, to trade blows and share the pain. And when the other guy was down it felt damn good to just keep on hitting. And kicking. Connor leaned his head back against the tree and closed his eyes.

Shit.

He could have killed that man.

Duncan stood and offered his hand. Connor took it, relying on Duncan's strength in this as well. Connor didn't look back as they walked away from the place where Sara had died. There was nothing there.

On the way back to their hotel, Duncan said, "You have enough time to get cleaned up while I pack and settle the bill. After that, we can go with Alea and Will to the morgue, and then we'll all go home."

Connor nodded. It was time to leave.

But in the hotel hallway, while Duncan was still in the lobby talking to the concierge, Connor met Daniel and Alea and Will just outside their door, all carrying bags. "Sensei Mike!" Will called in greeting, then peered more closely. "Are you alright? You look like you've been fighting."

"More like drinking," his father murmured.

"Both," Connor informed him curtly but then caught the flash of disappointment and disillusion in Will's eyes. "It's been … a rough couple of days," Connor explained, and breathed a little easier when Will nodded. Connor turned to Alea. "I'll be ready to go in twenty minutes."

"Oh, but—" She tilted her head like an inquisitive kitten, but her dark blue eyes went narrow instead of wide.

His wife Alex used to get that look, that same curious stare. Connor could remember watching her—across the kitchen table, in bed, in front of the fire… What would Alex have done, he wondered suddenly, if she had learned that their daughter was dead? He was fiercely glad he did not have to tell her, but he wished they could be together now. He needed her.

"Didn't you get my message?" Alea was asking.

"No." He hadn't checked his phone at all.

Daniel stepped in. "Alea told that me your girlfriend was caught in the blast, too. I'm very sorry."

He sounded utterly sincere. Connor managed a nod.

"Dad thought that we should take care of Mom," Alea said, her eyes concerned and kind, "so that you could take care of Laina."

And how in the hell, Connor thought, could he argue with his granddaughter about that?

"Will there be a memorial service?" Daniel asked.

Before Connor could say anything, Will volunteered, "I remember Sister Laina said once she wanted her ashes scattered in the sea."

On Saturday night, Connor had flushed burned bits of Cassandra down the toilet. They might get to the sea, eventually. But she was immortal. She would live forever. No matter how many people died around her, Cassandra would be fine. She would cope.

"You'll let us know?" Alea asked.

All three of them were looking at him expectantly, waiting for an answer, so Connor told them the truth: "Her family was the Sisterhood." Her life was devoted to Phinyx. "Her memorial will be the ceremony at St. Anne's Academy tonight."

"She'd like that," Will said with a nod.

"Is her niece going to be there?" Alea asked.

Connor got to tell the truth again. "I don't know."

"We were invited to the memorial ceremony," Daniel said, "but we talked about it and decided not to go."

Connor wasn't going to go, either.

"We'll see you at Uncle Colin's farm tomorrow at three, Cousin Mike," Alea said and kissed him on the cheek. Will solemnly shook his hand. Daniel gave him a nod. Then the three of them went into the elevator and disappeared, leaving Connor alone in the hall.

* * *

><p>They didn't check out that morning. There was no hurry now. After he showered, Connor forced himself to eat breakfast. The eggs and fruit and toast tasted of nothing.<p>

"What did Cassandra do?" Connor asked, crushing a crumb between his finger and his thumb. "When you told her?"

Duncan looked up from his breakfast, his eyebrows raised. "She cried."

So Cassandra had shed tears. But not in front of him. Duncan's eyebrows had lowered to the point of curiosity, and Connor pushed back his chair and stood. "I'm taking a nap," he announced.

He slept until noon. When he woke, he asked Duncan, "Want to go running?"

Duncan eyed him thoughtfully and replied, "No."

Connor ran the paths in Hyde Park for an hour at a pace that left him gasping, then went to buy water from the café near the lake. Someone had placed a large print of that damned Pieto picture on the window near the door.

"I heard it's the husband holding her in that picture," said a woman to her friend as they went in.

Connor gritted his teeth but said nothing. Daniel hadn't even been in the country on that day. How the hell did these stories get started? Connor got his water and got the hell out of there. He circled a group of enthusiastic young footballers and dodged a fellow on a unicycle, then found a secluded spot near the long, narrow pond.

The water in front of him was dark green and littered with faded, floating leaves. The water in the bottle tasted of chlorine and metal. A duck paddled slowly by. Behind him, came the steady beat of horses' hooves at the trot. When that faded, Connor forced himself to think about something he didn't want to remember.

He'd been wrong yesterday when he'd accused Cassandra of not caring. Duncan had said that she had cried, and Connor had watched her with his family over the past fifty years. She cared.

But Cassandra had spent centuries hiding her emotions, and yesterday she'd built a wall around herself and kept him outside. He'd seen that blank-faced reserve in her before, but for decades now she'd been more open with him, and he'd forgotten. So when she'd gone on about that picture and then just stood there, saying nothing, simply looking at him with empty and uncaring eyes…

He'd overreacted. That frozen silence of hers always drove him mad.

Literally. He'd already been angry at half a dozen things, and he'd lost his temper and taken it out on her. He'd accused her unfairly and called her vicious names. Later that night, still angry, he'd lashed out at Methos and then beaten a mortal into the ground.

Connor took another drink, swallowing quickly to avoid the taste. At least he hadn't hit Cassandra. Or killed her. There had been no blood on his hands that time, no one lying at his feet gagging in pain. And he wasn't enjoying any of this at all.

Shit.

Connor finished his water then stood and took out his phone. He wrote Methos a message first, to thank him for his concern, then selected Cassandra's name. He didn't want to talk to her, not yet, but he'd made her a promise, and Connor MacLeod kept his word. "The funeral's on Tuesday at three," he sent. He stared at it for a moment before responding to her messages from the night before: "I'd like to talk with you, too."

Cassandra answered within the minute: "Thank you. I'm halfway to the Highlands right now. Looking forward to seeing you soon."

Connor closed his phone and decided he would go to the memorial service after all. When he asked Duncan if he wanted to go, this time his kinsman said yes.

Like most Gaian ceremonies, the memorial service was long on music and short on words. Connor appreciated that. After an opening solo, people in green robes led the crowd in a Jewish remembrance responsorial, going through all the seasons of the year and the times of the heart while people murmured, "We remember them" after each line.

Another song followed, then the names of the dead were called, one by one, as a bell tolled in a high tower of the school, a deep echo felt in the bones. A higher-toned bell followed whenever a child's name was called. The names weren't in any order that Connor could discern, and people listened intently for the ones they knew. "Sister Laina Garrison" was announced by a man with a black beard; ten minutes later a teenage girl called out: "Sara Heather MacLeod" then added "Sister Caorran." Duncan placed his hand on Connor's shoulder as Connor bowed his head and murmured his daughter's names again, and the bell tolled once more.

When the calling of the names was complete, an older woman wearing a black veil that floated like smoke from her head to her knees came forward. Her amplified voice reached across the crowd to the stone walls that surrounded the lawn. "At birth, we each come from the body of our mother," she intoned. "At death, our bodies go back to the Mother. Yet our soul is a mystery, in its coming and in its going. The light from the sun touches the earth each day, yet night always comes. Our sisters and brothers have gone into the night, as each of us shall someday."

Musicians began playing, and people sang together. Then silence fell, and the woman in the black veil repeated the final line from the responsorial: "We remember them. So long as we live, they too shall live, for they are now a part of us."

Hundreds of voices spoke in unison: "We remember them."

With heads bowed, people murmured "So let it be" and then it was over. Music started, a quicker tempo than before, and people stepped forward to add offerings and mementos to the shrine at the base of the oak tree before they left. Black-cloaked Guardians had formed a long line of honor guards along the paths. Connor spotted Erika not far away.

"I want to talk to her before we go," Connor said.

"Then I'm finding a loo," Duncan replied and wandered off. While Connor was waiting for Erika, a short woman (whom Connor did not remember or recognize) thanked him profusely for his help on Saturday. A few people recognized Connor from his time at St. Hildegarde's and told him they were sorry about Laina. Connor thanked them.

Eventually, the Guardians broke rank, and Connor hailed Erika. She joined him near the cold stone of the perimeter wall, looking more tired now than she had yesterday at dawn. "Mike," she greeted him. "I'm glad to see you here."

"I'm glad I came," Connor said.

She nodded. "We usually do the Naming of the Dead at the end of October. People need the chance to say goodbye."

Saying goodbye was another way of letting go. He wasn't good at that. Cassandra was. She'd walked away from her families before, as had Methos. Duncan had, too. But Connor couldn't. Not fourteen years ago when Connor MacLeod had 'died.' Not now.

"Do you know if Laina's niece came?" Erika asked.

"Elise told me she couldn't," Connor replied, helping to build Cassandra's new identity. "She's out of the country."

"Have you met her?"

Connor nodded. "She looks a lot like her aunt. It's almost uncanny."

"That happens sometimes," Erika replied absently, her gaze scanning the thinning crowd.

"Any new intel?" Connor asked.

Erika turned back to him, interested now. "The police confirmed the second explosion was a gas line. It wasn't planned."

Not as vicious as it could have been, but that didn't matter. People had still been killed.

She grimaced. "I've been assigned to look into our own."

"For spies and traitors?"

"Yes, and for someone utterly committed to the Phinyx cause."

That brought Connor up short, but only for a moment. Fanatics could convince themselves of anything, and what quicker way to energize a movement than by planting a small bomb and becoming victims? They'd gotten huge amounts of free publicity, plus supportive speeches from elected officials and an outpouring of public sympathy.

"Temple attendance is up," Connor observed. He'd read the reports on Sunday afternoon. "So are online visits, by a factor of a five." Thanks, in no small part, to that infernal picture. Phinyx also now had more than a hundred martyrs, including a Gaian high priestess and two dozen children. And perhaps the fanatic herself. "Suicide martyr?" Connor asked.

"Could be," Erika replied. She sighed. "At first, I didn't think it was possible for one of our own to do this, but … some people are getting desperate. They keep saying there's not enough time."

Cassandra said that. Quite often.

"Gaians believe in reincarnation," Erika said, "so it's possible someone believed that the spread of their message was worth the lives of a few hundred people who will soon be reborn." She straightened her shoulders and concluded grimly, "It's a murder investigation, so anyone with opportunity, means, and motive is a suspect—dead or alive."

The late "Laina Garrison" had been utterly devoted to the Phinyx cause. But Cassandra wouldn't—

She couldn't have.

No.

"Let me know," Erika was saying, and Connor focused on her long enough to agree and to say goodbye. Then he leaned his back against the wall, his palms flat against the roughness of stone, pushed down all emotion, and once again forced himself to think.

Cassandra—with twenty-some other people—had gone outside just before the bombing. Had leaving the hotel been Cassandra's idea?

She didn't know much about bombs (at least, Connor didn't think so), but she knew people who did. And with the Voice, she could compel them to do whatever she asked, and then forget it completely. She'd had easy access to the hotel, and many opportunities during the first two days of the reunion to place the bombs. Or to order someone else to do it.

She had opportunity. She had means.

Her motive was Phinyx. It was her passion, her purpose, her new-found "prophecy" of a better world. That damned picture had made it clear that Cassandra was willing to use whatever—and whoever—came to hand to further that cause. Including Sara's death. Including him. Again.

Maybe she'd been willing to sacrifice strangers. Maybe her grief over Sara was compounded by guilt. Maybe, after thousands of years, Cassandra couldn't truly care, not deep down, because love was just a thin layer, pretty paint over an ice-cold core of millennia of ruthless pragmatism and self-centeredness. She was an immortal, after all.

So was he. Maybe one day, he would be the same way.

Duncan returned and asked, "Should we eat before we catch the train?" They went to dinner in a restaurant nearby. Connor silently toyed with his food, remembering how far Cassandra gone in the past, still debating with himself just how far Cassandra would go today.

On the train ride north, staring out at the dark countryside flickering by, Connor decided that Cassandra hadn't set the bomb. He didn't think she would do such a thing.

He wanted to _know_.

* * *

><p><em>Continued in "End of Innocence" - Connor hears some hard truths<br>_


	21. End of Innocence

_**The MacLeod Farm in the Highlands – Tuesday, 20 October 2048**_

* * *

><p>"The sky is crying," said a little girl during Sara's funeral.<p>

Duncan watched as the girl tilted her face and caught a raindrop on her tongue.

"Hush now," the mother said as she took the girl by the hand. They went up to the vases of flowers in the back of the funeral cart, and the little girl chose an orange lily to drop into Sara's grave. The mother took a red carnation.

Elena had sent those lilies; the carnations came from someone in town. Amanda had sent white roses. When it was Duncan's turn, he took a sprig of heather from the spray that Ceirdwyn and Matthew McCormick had sent. Those two were busy running a boarding school for pre-immortals in Ohio, along with raising two they'd adopted as their own, but they'd called Connor as soon as they'd heard. Connor's very old friend Evann had called, too. Duncan hadn't seen anything from Cassandra or Grace, but then he didn't know what names they were using now.

Keiko Osato, Sara's childhood friend who had moved back to Japan, had sent a single orchid, and Oona carried it to the grave. Graham brought the wreath of yellow daisies that John had sent, since snow had grounded all the airplanes in Denver and kept John from coming to his sister's funeral. Connor was standing at the edge of the crowd, his head down, and Duncan went to be by his side. Alea and Will walked up together and tossed lavender for their mother. Daniel let go of a single rose.

The coffin was nearly hidden beneath blossoms of every color when Colin stepped forward. His hand trembled a bit as he dropped a withered branch with five wrinkled berries, probably something he and Sara had found decades before.

One of Alea's friends from school sang a song Duncan didn't recognize, and then people started to leave. The family went first, Alea and Will walking arm in arm with Daniel, and Colin and Oona holding hands as they went down the hill to the farmhouse. Graham took the horses and the funeral cart with the flowers to the stable.

"Isn't Grandpa coming?" the little girl asked, twisting around to look back at a stocky, gray-haired man wearing a tweed cap who was standing still.

"Leave him be," her mother said, and their footsteps faded, squelching on the faded yellow grass. Others drifted away: a gaggle of Alea's friends from school, people from the village, three older women walking side by side, silent in hooded gray robes.

"Teachers?" Duncan asked Connor quietly, motioning to the women.

Connor didn't bother to look up. "Half of what's left of the nine Phinyx councilors."

The man in the cap stayed.

A light rain began to fall, slow and relentless. Far below them, the surface of the loch was a sullen dark gray. The letters carved into the pair of gravestones were black: "Alexandra MacLeod (1962-2027) Beloved Wife and Mother" and "Rachel Ellenstein (1939-2041) Daughter and Friend."

The man reached into his coat pocket and took out a silver ring with a blue stone then stood twisting it between his fingers. When he finally looked up, he met Duncan's gaze. "I was going to ask her to marry me," the man explained. "At Christmas time." He looked back down at the casket and said softly, "We'd been together over a year."

Duncan hadn't known Sara even had a boyfriend. Judging from the utter stillness on Connor's face, Sara hadn't told her father, either.

The man knelt then leaned forward and dropped the ring on top of the yellow daisies. He got up with a creak of one knee and a grunt, nodded to Duncan and Connor then left them standing in the rain, next to a pile of dirt and an open grave.

Twenty-one years ago, Duncan had helped Connor dig Alex's grave. It had been summer then, not autumn. Colin and John had been there, too, and the four of them worked together and taken turns in the age-old ritual. But John wasn't here this time, and Colin and Graham had dug the grave yesterday, before the rain had started, before Connor had even arrived.

The final task, burying his daughter… Connor had claimed that for his own.

Duncan listened as Connor softly bade his daughter farewell in Gaelic, an ancient prayer of safe journeying. Duncan had said that same prayer when he had buried Deborah, over four hundred years ago, not so far away. Duncan's mother had said that prayer over him whenever he went hunting, and on the day he had left the clan.

Connor crossed himself at the end, slowly, and Duncan did the same. He let his hand keep moving, to wipe away the beginnings of tears.

"Goodbye, Princess," Connor whispered then resolutely picked up his shovel and started to dig. A clod of damp earth landed heavily on the flowers, the dark soil flattening the petals. Duncan got to work on the other side, and their shovels rose and fell as they shared in the ritual of duty and love.

When it was done, Duncan took out a fine single-malt from his bag, pulled the cork, and offered the bottle to his kinsman.

"Methos sent this?" Connor asked as he looked at the attached card, which read simply "MacLeod."

Duncan nodded.

"Is it to help me drown my sorrows?" Connor asked. "Or to help you put up with me?"

Probably a bit of both. "It's for the MacLeods," Duncan replied. "And that's us."

Connor was looking at the ground. "And them." He poured a bit of whisky on Sara's grave then lifted the bottle toward the sky. "To Sara," he said. He'd cleared his throat, but the words came out ragged and hoarse anyway. He drank, then gripped the bottle in both hands before handing it over.

"To Sara," Duncan echoed and drank in turn. The bottle was gritty from the dirt that had rubbed off Connor's hands. They drank to Rachel and to Alex next, and sprinkled whisky on their graves, and then they drank to their own parents, and to Heather and to Deborah. "And to my cousin Robert," Duncan said next, and they began calling out names of clansmen long-dead whose bones lay buried in these hills. They ran out of whisky before they ran out of names.

"Walk?" Duncan suggested. Connor nodded, and they set out across the hills.

The sky was still crying.

* * *

><p>When Connor and Duncan returned to the farm at dusk, most of the cars were gone, but a lot of the lights in the farmhouse were still on. "Ready to go in?" Duncan asked.<p>

Connor shook his head. "I'm going to the stable." Horses didn't ask questions or wonder who you were or inquire in hushed tones how you knew the deceased.

Duncan nodded, laid a hand lightly on Connor's shoulder, then headed for the house. Connor headed to the stable, seeking solitude.

But Colin was there, his face hidden in the mane of a bay mare, his arms around her neck. The horse just stood there, as horses will do, but Colin's shoulders were shaking, and Connor could hear his youngest son's anguished, wrenching sobs.

This, they could share.

Connor went up to Colin and put a hand on his upper arm. Colin turned to him, and they stood there, holding onto each other while they each let go.

After a long while, Colin said, "Damn it, Dad." His voice was muffled against Connor's shoulder, and he drew a shuddering breath.

Connor tried doing that, but it still hurt to breathe. "Damn it all to hell," he agreed, and the words hurt, too.

When they finally separated, they both studiously looked away, giving each other some time. Connor wiped his nose on his sleeve, then scrubbed at his face with his hands. Colin picked up a brush from a tack box and went to the other side of the horse.

Connor got the hoof pick out, then bent down and leaned his shoulder against the mare's foreleg. She lifted her foot, and he set to work on digging out muck. "What's the mare's name?" Connor asked as he dug loose a tiny stone.

"Penny," Colin replied. His brush loosened a cloud of dust from her flank. "Got her in trade. She's bouncy at the trot." He cleared his throat. "Sara loved to ride her."

Sara loved to ride. Connor had put her on a pony when she was three, and she'd been grinning from ear to ear. She and Colin had ridden nearly every day after school.

"She and Will would ride nearly every day after school," Colin said, with one of his eerie echoing of thoughts. "Will rides Butterscotch."

Connor turned his head to look at the sturdy chestnut who had poked his head out of his stall, obviously hoping for a treat.

"Will's going to keep living here," Colin announced. "Daniel agreed."

"Good," Connor said. The boy didn't need any more of his life ripped away.

"Alea's going to move here, too, before the baby's born."

That was good, too. No one should have to raise a baby alone. Connor gave the hoof a final brushing and let go. Penny stamped her foot down.

Connor straightened and faced his son over the mare's back. Colin's hair had faded to gray a few years ago, just like his sister's. In the last three days, his face had gone old with grief, and at the funeral his shoulders had been bowed like an old man's.

But his voice was still strong, and his hands were sure, and he was standing straighter now. "Just last week," Colin said, "Sara was talking about teaching her granddaughter how to ride." He patted the mare and tried to smile. "That's up to me now."

"Sara would like that," Connor said.

Colin's nod was firm; then he added, "I'll be teaching my own, too."

It took Connor a few seconds to puzzle that out. "Graham?"

"His girlfriend, Fila Barton, is due in April. They're going to live in the guest cottage."

And so the family would go on, with another generation of MacLeods on the farm. "Good," Connor said. "Kids should have cousins and family close by."

A sister.

They finished grooming in silence then put the tack away. They both paused outside the stable door and looked up at the daffodil hill, now only a faint outline in the dark. "When you called," Colin began in a low voice, "I already knew. There was … a silence inside me. An empty place." He managed a heartbreaking grin. "Twins, you know."

"I know," Connor said. He'd watched them grow up together, finishing each others' sentences or—more often—communicating without any words. When their powers had emerged, they'd even shared each others' dreams. Sara and Colin had taken different paths in life and lived in different countries, but they'd never grown apart.

Now she was gone.

Colin let out a long sigh then shook his head rapidly, as if to shake loose his thoughts. "You know how Alea looks like Mom?" he asked next.

Connor did know, and it was getting more obvious every year. Alex had been blonde and Alea was dark, but other than that, they might have been twins themselves. Alex had lived just long enough to hold her infant granddaughter in her arms. Sara never would.

"I'm hoping this baby will look like Sara," Colin confided.

Connor had a sudden image of Sara at two years old, blue-grey eyes glaring at him with outraged fury and utter disgust from under dark bangs because he'd told her it was time for bed. She'd been adorable. He'd still carried her up the stairs to her room. "Let's hope," Connor agreed.

Colin was looking at the daffodil hill again. "Remember what I said when Mom died?"

Connor cleared his throat. "You want to be buried there, too."

"It's a good place," Colin said, sounding at peace with the idea.

"Yeah," Connor had to agree. It was home.

* * *

><p>Cassandra arrived at the MacLeod farm the morning after the funeral. The place seemed deserted; she sensed no immortals and saw no cars. But as Cassandra took a bag from her car, Colin came out from the stables, wearing work clothes and muddy boots. Her clothes weren't much better, though they weren't muddy yet.<p>

"Dad went running," Colin told her as he came near. "He left at dawn."

It was nearly nine. When Connor was troubled, he would run for hours at a time.

"Oona just went shopping, and Uncle Duncan took Graham and Alea and Will to Glenfinnan this morning." Colin tilted his head to one side and narrowed his eyes a bit, the way Alex used to do. "But you know that."

She did. She'd called Duncan that morning and asked him to take the "younger set" away from the house. "They shouldn't see me."

"Right," Colin said with a nod. "Your character Laina died from the bomb."

Forthrightness was another gift the twins had shared. In spades.

Colin finished with: "It's just me here now."

Now that his sister was gone. "I am so sorry, Colin," Cassandra said, reaching out a hand to him, For an instant, his face crumpled and his eyes were bewildered with grief, and she remembered that look from when he was four years old and one of their cats had died, but then his expression went quiet again. His eyes were still sad.

"I'm sorry," she repeated.

He gripped her hand and said, "Me, too." Then he let go and nodded at the bag. "Did you bring flowers for Sara's grave?"

Not many spoke of the dead so simply. Not so soon. "Yes," Cassandra said.

"Good. They help. Mom's flowers bloom in March, February sometimes. I go up every day during the spring."

"Shall we plant them together?" Cassandra made herself say the name: "For Sara?"

Colin nodded, and they climbed the hill in silence, side by side. They worked silently, too, and they watered some of the bulbs with their tears. Only as the last of the bulbs went in did he say, "Planting bulbs on top of the grave is better than dropping flowers in. But most people don't like to get their hands dirty."

Their hands were muddy, and Cassandra had dirt under every nail. No gloves today, the hands and the earth should touch. "Were there many flowers?" she asked, wondering how the funeral had gone.

"Dozens, all kinds. But I gave her the rowan branch." Colin scooped a pile of dirt back into a hole.

His sister had taken that branch from a rowan tree on the day she and her brother had turned seven years old, the day Cassandra had told the twins their secret names. "Did it still have all five berries?" Cassandra asked.

"All five," Colin confirmed. He patted the earth down then rubbed the sleeve of his forearm across his eyes, wiping away tears.

"Gallan," she named him softly. "Branch of the rowan tree."

He looked up at the name, but his smile was wistful, and he shook his head. "Sara was Caorran, I know, but no magic name for me. No powers. I decided that thirty-five years ago."

Cassandra had helped him tamp the abilities down. But he still carried the power in his blood, and he still dreamed sometimes.

"The dreams are no help," Colin said, as if he had heard what she didn't say. "Sara and I both dreamed of fire and darkness for months, but we had no clue what it meant, and she died from a fiery bomb. The very last thing she said was: 'It's getting dark'." He shrugged then got to his feet and wiped his hands on his thighs.

Cassandra stood, too. "Her granddaughter will come here each spring, every day, to watch the flowers grow," she promised.

"I know," he said. "I'll bring her."

He didn't mention his own grandson, still to be born. But Cassandra knew that the boy from Fila and Graham would also come to this hill, as would some of Will's children. And their children, down through the ages. Cassandra could see them, a long line across the hills, shining with power and growing brighter as the blood lines intertwined even more.

Those dreams would also come true.

"I have to go," Colin said, looking at his phone. "Vet call. Are you going to wait for Dad?"

She nodded, and they parted with a hug. Cassandra had a final offering to make, but for now she sat by Caorran's grave to wait.

Soon enough, Connor appeared on the horizon, moving at a steady jog. He slowed to a walk when he reached the hill she was on, and he stopped three paces away. In the sunshine, the pale hairs of his beard gleamed. They would be soft under her hand, not scratchy, if she brushed her fingers the right way. His skin would be smooth, slick and salty from the run.

But she didn't dare to touch him, and she didn't want him to touch her. Cassandra breathed out silently and reminded herself to relax. He didn't look angry now. He wouldn't hit her, not here. "Colin and I planted flowers," she said.

Connor looked at the grave, where the dirt still bore the imprint of hands. "Good."

As usual, she counted to five to give him time to speak. Then she counted to five again. Nothing. It seemed their conversation was up to her. "What kind of flower did you place on the coffin?" she asked. They were both still looking at the dark earth of the grave, not at each other.

"None."

Lord of the monosyllable, he was. But the door had been opened, and once more she waited for him to step through.

"When I buried her," he said, almost too quietly to hear, "the dirt covered all the flowers."

And the earth had covered her. Cassandra closed her eyes as the tears began, making no attempt to wipe them away. Water for the flowers. Water for the dead.

When she opened her eyes, Connor was watching her. Judging her. As if he had the right. "I loved her, too," Cassandra flared, finally able to speak for herself.

"I know," he agreed quietly. "On Sunday, I was … upset."

"So was I," she shot back.

"I know," he agreed again, and the softness of his answer blunted the sharpness of hers. "I was wrong. And I'm sorry."

Cassandra hadn't heard that from Connor very often. She hadn't been sure if she'd hear it today, certainly not so quickly. "Thank you," she said as more tears came to her eyes. "I didn't respond well, I know. I was…" She had been haunted by the memory of Connor's hands holding her down as she died over and over again in pain, and as soon as he became angry, she had immediately gone behind her walls. He'd tried to force his way through, so she had kept retreating until he exploded in rage.

They'd done that dance before. She really needed to get that music out of her head. At least it was fading quickly, and the nightmares weren't so bad as she had feared. But she didn't want to go into that, not now, not here, so she settled for, "It was a horrible day."

"That it was," he agreed ,and they both went back to looking at Caorran's grave. "I went to the memorial service in London," he said next. "It was well done."

"I'm glad."

"I talked to Erika afterward. She said the second explosion wasn't planned, just a gas line."

Connor was watching her, waiting, so Cassandra said, "Oh." But she didn't see how this should matter to her. The dead were still dead.

"Don't you want to find the people who did this?" he asked.

What she wanted was for Caorran—and everyone else—to still be alive. But bombings happened all the time, and just because this one had affected her personally didn't make it any worse than countless others. That was why she worked to pull out the roots of such violence, not pick up its bloody fruit.

Besides, she had no training in investigation, except for interrogating people with the Voice, and she didn't want to go down that road, not again. "Vengeance is a sword with no handle, Connor. When you pick it up, you cut your own hand to the bone. I won't do that anymore."

"And you don't think I should, either," he challenged.

She tried not to sigh. "That's up to you." His mouth tightened in irritation, so Cassandra agreed with him where she could. "You're right; such bombings need to be stopped."

That seemed to mollify him, and he asked, "I told Erika I'd get back to her soon. You were there; did you see anything? Anyone?"

"Nothing unusual."

"Any ideas?"

Nothing the Guardians and the police weren't already considering, she was sure. "No."

"Who suggested you go outside that day?"

"I think it was Maril, one of the acolytes," Cassandra said. "The weather was beautiful." She was getting tired of the questions. "Why?"

He shrugged. "Erika wanted to know."

He was lying. She could tell. And he was watching her again. "Oh," she said in hurt surprise, as the pieces of the ugly picture came together and her heart slowly splintered apart. "You're wondering if I set the bomb."

"No."

That was true. But not completely. "You did wonder." He looked uncomfortable but he didn't deny it, and Cassandra caught her breath in pain. When he'd accused her of not caring about Caorran at all, he'd been distraught, and then he'd reacted with rage to her own pathological silence. Cassandra could understand that. But this devastating suspicion wasn't inspired by sudden rage. "How could you think this of me?" she whispered.

"It's a murder investigation," he explained, shifting his feet. "Everyone's a suspect."

"Even your daughter?" she challenged. "Did you consider her a suspect, even for an instant?" She already knew the answer to that. "Why me, and not her?"

"Don't be obtuse, Cassandra," he said wearily. "Sara never sacrificed innocents to a cause, and you have."

"So I have," she agreed slowly. She'd sacrificed them for lesser reasons, too. She'd done cruel and despicable things in her thirty-five hundred years. Methos wasn't the only one with brutality in his past. Connor knew some of what she'd done. His suspicion was not without reason.

But he knew other things, too. They'd been student and teacher, co-workers and friends. They'd been lovers. She'd opened her heart to this man. She'd bared her soul. "I have _never _deliberately hurt a child," she said. "You know that. Or you should."

"I do know that," Connor said. "That's why I decided you didn't do it."

"How kind of you," she replied with icy politeness. "If we hadn't had any childcare that day, would I still be a suspect?"

"No," he said flatly. "I don't believe you would do such a thing. All right?"

It wasn't all right. "Just how long," she asked, "did it take you to come to this decision?"

He sighed and rubbed his hand across his mouth and chin, a prelude to a lie. "Cassandra—"

"How long?" she demanded.

His head snapped up and he glared right back into her eyes. "It was a horrible day," he told her, tossing her words back in her face, so that her plea for understanding became an angry reminder. "It's been a fucking horrible week. My daughter is dead—murdered—and I'm trying to find the person to blame. All right?"

That wasn't all right, either. That was the sword with no handle that cut to the bone. But Connor wasn't ready to give up his dream of vengeance, and it was clear he hadn't been thinking well these past few days. She needed to forgive and let go of the hurt and the anger then move on. He needed her to. "All right," she agreed then forced herself to add, "I understand."

"Thank you," he said.

He should have offered her an apology.

"I do trust you, Cassandra," Connor said. "And I know you cared. I just…" He looked at the grave again. "God, I miss her."

"I know," Cassandra said, her eyes burning with tears. "I miss her, too. Caorran was my—"

"Her name," Connor ground out, taking a step forward, "was Sara." His voice was cold; his eyes were angry, and Cassandra found she could not move.

"Sara Heather MacLeod," he spelled out, and with each name his fists grew tighter, and Cassandra dared not look away.

"And she was _my_ daughter," he snapped then took one more step, getting closer, much too close.

"_Stop!_" Cassandra ordered, summoning the deep-rooted Voice of command, and Connor froze. His muscles were locked and trembling, and eyes were shocked into disbelief. That shifted all too quickly to pent up rage, and Cassandra swiftly backed away, cursing herself for a fool. She should never have done that. She should have controlled herself better.

"I'm sorry," she whispered as she moved to the other side of Caorran's grave to put that barrier between them. He might hit her after all.

Connor shuddered himself free, a great rippling of rage, then turned his head to snarl, "What the hell?" and start to come at her once more.

Cassandra backed away once more as she opened her mouth, ready to command. He saw it and froze, this time on his own. Then he held up both hands, as if in surrender, and slowly backed away.

She swallowed, tasting bile, and held onto Rachel's gravestone for balance as her body trembled with relief, exhaustion, and fear. In slamming him hard, she'd drained herself. If she'd used all her power, she might have stopped his heart. Or her own.

Connor repeated, more calmly this time: "What the hell, Cassandra." His words sharpened as he demanded, "Using the Voice?"

"It just… I wasn't…" She was nearly babbling, and she marshaled her breathing, one in, one out. In, out. "I was defending myself," she said finally. "I was afraid."

"Of what?" He seemed honestly bewildered. "All I did was say her name."

"You were coming at me. Your hands were fists." He looked surprised. He probably hadn't even realized it. The urge to violence ran that deep in him.

"Damn it, Cassandra, I wasn't going to hit you," he said in exasperation. "I haven't hit you in fifty years."

But sometimes, she knew, he had wanted to. Fifty years ago, he had enjoyed hitting her, and five hundred years ago, he had enjoyed killing her. She had thought that his pleasure in her pain was only because of what she had done to him. She had thought she would be safe, as long as she didn't betray him or lie to him again.

Then she had seen him beating a mortal with his fists, and smiling at every blow. She had never seen him fight before, and she had never realized just how much he liked to kill, how much pleasure he took from inflicting pain.

It repulsed her. It terrified her, and so did he.

"You're afraid of me," Connor said, as if that were a surprise.

He was angry again; she could tell. But what did he expect? He was the one who'd been threatening and accusing her and then beating that helpless man into a bloody pulp. Why wouldn't she be afraid of him?

He was the one who would take her head if he believed her power with the Voice was a threat. He wanted her to be afraid of him. Cassandra wondered why she hadn't seen that before. To stay alive, she had to keep him happy. To stay alive, she had to please him.

She wasn't going to be that woman any more. Not with Methos, not with Roland, not with Kronos, not with Connor. Not with anyone.

Never again.

Cassandra went back behind her walls and shut the door, then settled into the silence and the safety there. She wouldn't be able to do this otherwise, and she knew it had to be done. "I think you were right, Connor," she said, her voice calm. "We're not good for each other."

"What?" he demanded, his eyes narrowed in confusion.

"This isn't working between us," she told him. "A relationship needs trust."

"I told you that I trust you."

She looked straight at him, feeling weary sadness and compassion. "But I don't trust you."

"You have got to be fucking kidding me," he swore in disbelief. "After everything I've put up with? Listening to you, waiting for you, defending you…"

"You have been caring and kind and unbelievably patient with me," she agreed. "I appreciate that, truly. I wouldn't be alive if it weren't for you. I know that, and I am grateful. But … there's another side of you, Connor, and I don't feel safe when I'm near you."

"You sure that's me, and not you?" he prodded. "I know I lost my temper the other day, but you're always hypersensitive, Cassandra. You overreact. You see threats that don't exist."

"Yes," she admitted. Especially now. "Part of the problem is me. But not all. Was that man that you were beating in London 'hypersensitive', Connor?"

He rubbed his hand over his eyes then said, "He started it," as if trying for a joke.

"Did you finish it?"

"He'll live."

The words were grim, but it might have been grimmer. If she hadn't appeared, Connor might not have stopped in time.

"I'm an immortal," Connor said impatiently, defending himself. "I'm a warrior; I have to be. You know that. Or you should."

Once again, he'd thrown her own words back at her. This time, he'd missed the point. "I know you're a warrior. But you're a killer, too."

He shrugged. "We all are."

"No," she said, slowly shaking her head. "Not all of us enjoy hurting other people."

She was watching, so she saw him flinch as that truth struck home. But Connor had his own walls, and an instant he was hidden behind them, face blank and eyes watchful.

This needed to be finished. She wanted it done. "I can't be with you, Connor," she told him.

His only reaction was a long, measuring stare. "Still friends?"

She had pledged herself to that friendship. He was the best friend she had. "Yes. Always."

"But not lovers," he said, testing that ground.

"I can't," she whispered.

"Cassandra—"

"No."

After a long silent moment he nodded then turned and walked away. Cassandra knelt beside Caorran's grave and didn't watch him go.

* * *

><p>Connor walked away from Cassandra, down off the hill where his wife and his daughters were buried, and he kept walking, past the horses and the house and down to the cold waters of the loch far below.<p>

When he reached the water's edge, he started throwing rocks. They sank and disappeared, leaving tiny ripples behind.

Fuck.

That had not gone well.

It had started fine, but they'd pissed each other off fast enough. He should have waited a few days before asking her about the bombing, but he'd needed to be sure. Unfortunately, she could read him well enough to figure that out. On the other hand, he could also read her, and now he was certain she hadn't done it. So he could understand her getting mad about being a suspect. But how the hell could she not care about catching the bastards?

And why the hell couldn't she use Sara's real name? Even the memorial service had gotten it right. He'd spelled it out for her, only to see absolute panic in Cassandra's eyes just before the sound of her voice—her _Voice_—had whipped out and sliced into him, uncoiling in his mind and sending tendrils to strangle round around his legs and arms.

For a long, nauseating moment, he hadn't been able to move. She'd taken him by surprise, and that command had been knife-edged and made stronger by her fear. Plus, he was out of practice in resisting, which was his own damn fault for not getting a refresher course every ten years or so. But Cassandra hadn't been toying with him; she'd apologized even as she was backing away.

And so Connor had decided to let the Voice episode go. He'd lost his temper the other day; she'd lost her control today … both of them were still on edge and raw with grief. He knew that.

So did she.

She'd dumped him anyway. Instead of the classic "It's not you; it's me", she'd gone for "It's a little bit me, but mostly it's you."

He picked up a smooth, flat rock and skidded it across the water. It hit four times before it sank.

Cassandra had it backwards. It was a little bit him. It was mostly her. She was hypersensitive and jumping at shadows. She'd taken one fight, seen from a distance, and cast him in the role of a torturing sadist, like the ones who'd haunted her dreams.

He was a warrior, damn it, and he fought to win. And sometimes for fun. Yes, he'd gone too far the other night in London, but that happened in battle sometimes. She should know that, but she obviously wasn't thinking very clearly right now. Arguing with her in this mood was pointless; he knew that better than he wanted to. She'd calm down eventually, and they could figure this crap out then. And frankly, he could use some time away from Cassandra and her accusations and her moods.

Connor shook his head as he selected another rock. Looked like she was right about that: they weren't good for each other right now. He threw the rock as far as he could; then he headed back up the hill. When he reached the farm, Cassandra's car was gone.

Colin showed up just before noon. "Did you see Cassandra?" he asked. "Did she leave?"

"Oh, yeah," Connor replied. "She's gone."

* * *

><p>Just before dinner, Connor went to the stable and started mucking stalls: steady, repetitive work that required no thought. Colin found him there."Dad…"<p>

"What?" Connor said, looking up. His son's face was pale, carved old by lines of grief and new fear, and he was shaking his head. In his hands was a vid screen. Connor put down the muck rake to hear the bad news.

It wasn't a bomb. Not a human bomb, anyway. Yellowstone had erupted. That national park was really a super volcano that had been dormant for over six hundred thousand years. "Wasn't there any warning?" Connor asked.

"The US dismantled their Geological Service twenty years ago."

The map on the screen showed North America. Nearly the entire western half of the continent was colored: the lava flow area was bright red, the ash fallout orange, the ash cloud pink. The red area covered most of Wyoming; the orange covered nearly to the Mississippi River. The pink was scheduled to reach Scotland in a few days. The death toll was estimated in the millions.

Connor lifted a hand to the screen, as if he could wipe those deadly colors away, then dropped it numbly and whispered, "John."

He trudged back up the hillside, to talk to Alex and Rachel. And Sara. She was buried there, too. It still didn't seem real.

It was raining again, and the sun was almost gone. The earth of Sara's grave still bore the imprint of Cassandra's hands. More flowers would bloom in the spring. Crocus, maybe. Purple and white. Sara had always liked those.

Connor knelt on the damp earth to tell them about the volcano. It helped, to talk. "Alea and Will are staying here with Colin and Oona and Graham," Connor said, the wind carrying his words. "Alea's baby will be here in a few months. They'll be fine, here in the Highlands with Colin. I'm going to go look for John. Maybe … maybe bring him home."

Maybe right here.

Connor was about to leave when he noticed the triple braid of copper hair lying coiled at the foot of Sara's grave. He touched it, picked it up, ran it through his hands. It was silk under his fingers, nearly four feet long, but no longer a living cloak, soft and warm against his skin. The hair was heavy, cold, and dead.

Connor lifted his face to the darkening sky and let the rain run down.

* * *

><p><em>Continued in "Inferno" - The MacLeods mount a rescue mission, and Cassandra goes to Methos for advice<br>_


	22. Inferno

**INFERNO**

* * *

><p><strong>Sheffield, England, 21 October 2048<strong>

* * *

><p>"I'm sorry," Duncan told Methos on the phone. "I won't be able to visit."<p>

Methos was not surprised. Disappointed, yes (though he hid that), but not surprised. A date with Duncan MacLeod was much like the Holy Grail: long sought after yet forever out of reach. "Something come up?" Methos asked. "Or someone?"

"I'm going with Connor to North America to look for his son John."

Even in five thousand years, Methos didn't remember getting stood up for a volcanic eruption before. Thankfully, they were that rare. "Where's his son live?"

"Colorado."

Make that: where did his son die. Methos tried not to sigh. "Have you ever seen a volcanic eruption, MacLeod?"

Duncan got that stubborn expression on his face. "Connor just lost Sara. And now this. He needs me right now."

Methos had no doubt that Connor was reeling from the double blow. But it was a damn stupid idea all the same. "Was this fool's errand his idea?" Methos asked. "Or yours?" That brought out Duncan's tight jaw and angry eyebrows, his standard response to an insult to one of the clan.

"We're going together," Duncan said, closing ranks against an outsider.

"How?" Methos asked, for all flights to North American were grounded due to airborne volcanic ash.

"Connor chartered a ship. As soon as we get the relief supplies loaded, we'll go."

So, knights errant instead of a fool's errand. Connor was clearly desperate for something to do, and heroism was part of Duncan's charm. At least he wasn't going off to fight. "Well then," Methos said lightly, "bon voyage."

"I'll call you," Duncan promised. "When I get back."

They parted with quick nods and quicker smiles. Methos propped his chin on his hand and stared at the blank surface of the screen. "And what," he murmured to the emptiness there, "will we say then?"

* * *

><p>Two weeks later, he got another call—voice only. "I'd like to talk with you," said Cassandra.<p>

Methos leaned his backside against the edge of the lab bench. "So talk," he invited.

"In person," she clarified.

He turned slightly then took his time replacing the small cylinder of metglass into its padded container. Cassandra hadn't asked to see him in decades. Sara's death? Or something else? He might as well find out. "All right," he agreed, but he wasn't about to go out of his way this time. He didn't owe Cassandra anything anymore. "The peace garden in Sheffield," he told her.

"Fine."

"Saturday at two."

"This afternoon at four?" she countered.

That eager, was she? Or simply in the neighborhood? He would find that out, too. "Fine," he echoed and ended the call. He had work to do.

At three that afternoon, he finished the last of the particle beam scans on the sample. "Going well, Dr. Winston?" asked the graduate student at the other station. Her black hair was very short and stood out in tiny tufts, each tipped with purple.

"Very promising," Methos replied as he locked the metglass away. They might just get that spaceship finished. He put on his dark purple overcoat and picked up his cane. "See you tomorrow morning."

"Afternoon for me," she said. "Bonfires for Guy Fawkes tonight."

"Ah, yes," Methos said. "The fifth of November." Every culture needed a scapegoat to kill. As he walked along the streets in the warm afternoon sunshine, here and there he saw preparations for England's festival of fire.

He arrived at the peace garden early, yet still he felt the thrum of another immortal. It seemed Cassandra was earlier even than he. Or someone else was.

Methos paused near the head of one of the five narrow water courses that outlined the fan-shaped green patches and began to peruse the crowd for anyone who might be carrying a sword. No one was looking about suspiciously, but that meant nothing. The arrival of another immortal was easy enough to pretend to ignore.

Six old men were playing chess and chatting near the wall of the far building. They seemed unlikely threats, though one had a cane, much like his own. As usual these last two decades, there were no mothers out with babies, no children running about and making noise.

A few people in business attire were walking through the park on their way from one office to another, some striding seriously, others taking their time. A dozen or so university students loitered near the center fountain, brilliant as butterflies hovering over a bush. Their fashionable attire (bright tunic over patterned stockings with colored boots) was skimpy enough that hiding a long blade was unlikely.

Even so, Methos took his time in looking, for they were pleasant to look upon. He was wondering if the student in the green and purple paisley was male or female when the slender woman in the black-and-white-check minidress turned her head, revealing her profile.

Methos stopped looking for someone who was after his head. Cassandra continued listening to a conversation and pretending she didn't know he was there, so Methos took the opportunity to evaluate her latest makeover. She'd lost weight and was trying to look younger, perhaps twenty-five or so, judging from her companions and her modish clothes. Certainly Laina Garrison wouldn't have worn such virulently green striped stockings or such a bold pattern. Nor could Methos remember seeing Cassandra (in any incarnation) wear pink shoes.

Her gloriously long hair was gone. She wore her hair in the same tufted style as that graduate student's back in the lab, though Cassandra's very short locks were blonde with black tips. Punkish, it might have been called half a century ago. Methos believed the current term was grisly.

In a year or so, he would need to know the younger generation's slang. It was nearly time to say farewell to the aging professor Dr. Kyle Winston and become someone new.

But first, a conversation with Cassandra. She had picked up her orange backpack and headed in his direction, so Methos sat on a bench and laid his cane across his knees. Then he looked straight ahead, as if admiring the view of the small rivulet of water in front of a sparse row of cedar trees. She took up a position a few paces away from him and sat on the concrete ledge near the stream. She kept her gaze on the water as she said, "Thank you for coming."

He didn't feel like saying thank you, and meeting her wasn't his pleasure. So he shrugged and asked, "What do you want to talk about?"

She looked at him sidelong, over her left shoulder. "Can you still love?"

Definitely not a question he had been expecting. But she was serious, and he could see that the question wasn't so much about him as it was about her, a younger seeking advice from an elder, so he answered with equal gravity. "Yes."

She looked back down at the water and stretched a hand toward it. Her fingertips couldn't quite touch; the water rippled just out of reach. In the naked curve of her neck, he could see faint outlines of bones. "When they die, do you still grieve?" she asked in a small voice, still looking down.

"Yes," he answered immediately. If he closed his eyes, he could still see her. Every so often, he thought he heard her merry giggle. Sometimes, he woke from a dream of the touch of her hands.

But not lately. Not for years. Alexa was fading, as Sorcha had faded, as had dozens of others before. In a few hundred years, he would struggle to remember the color of Alexa's eyes. One day, he knew, he would not even remember her name.

But while he remembered, he could still grieve. "Oh, yes," he told Cassandra. "That's one thing that doesn't get easier with practice." He used his cane to get to his feet then came and sat on the ledge, a double arm's length away from her. "It hurts, every time."

"But it is different," Cassandra said. "We've done it before."

"It's not new," he agreed. So little was these days. "We know how it goes. And we know we'll survive."

Cassandra brought her knees up and wrapped her arms around her legs, curling in on herself. "I hadn't done it for such a long time," she said. "I wasn't sure if I was doing it right. Or if even I could, anymore."

"Grieve?"

She lifted her head, her green eyes startled wide. "Love."

"Ah," he said softly, understanding now. Her younger lover was making her feel her age. Not very tactfully, either, Methos suspected. Connor MacLeod was hardly a diplomat at the best of times, and now… He must have shaken Cassandra badly, Methos knew, for her to seek him out, especially on such a topic. "Love is also different," he offered.

"Because we've done it before?" she asked, her words sharp-edged.

"Because we know that grief is the handmaiden of love," Methos told her. "Always." Every damn time. "So…"

"So we either walk away first," she finished, "or we learn to let go."

"Precisely." Easier to say than to do, of course, but that was the idea. Usually, sometimes for centuries at a time, Methos floated along, letting the currents take him. People and opportunities came into his life and then left again, as the wind and tides dictated. He didn't paddle furiously after them or fight the currents; he simply enjoyed whatever came, and then he let it go.

Sometimes, though, for certain people, he dove deep. He pursued and he cared, and if he was lucky, they danced and sometimes they fought and often they laughed and under the stars they made love.

In the end, they died, and then he grieved. And it was worth it, every damn time. But to have a companion through the ages, to partner with an immortal and never have to say goodbye, to stop hiding who and what he was… Methos missed that.

He missed it fiercely.

Cassandra sighed and rested her cheek on her knee. "I told Connor about letting go, years ago. He didn't want to leave his family."

Duncan hadn't either. Stubborn bastards, these MacLeods. And very young. "Connor's not ready for you, Cassandra," Methos said.

"I know." The words came out in a whisper. She shook her head slowly. "He was so angry…"

"Sara was his daughter, and she died in his arms," Methos pointed out. "It was his responsibility to protect her, and he failed. Or course he was angry."

"I know," she said again. "Then his own survivor's guilt made it worse."

"Yes," Methos agreed. When a mortal died, immortals got angry at immortals—including themselves. Which was why he stayed away from grieving immortals. They were an unpredictable lot, struggling with rage and sorrow and a double-edged death-wish (either for their own or someone else's), and they carried swords. "You and Sara both died of your wounds that day," Methos added. "You came back. She didn't. Not only was Connor angry at himself; he was angry at you."

"I know," Cassandra said, and this third time the phrase was painfully dry. She straightened her legs and sat up. "I did catch that."

He really had no interest in the gory details of their lover's spat. Time to segue. "A quickening found me that day, after the second explosion," Methos said. "Any idea who it might have been?"

Cassandra's eyebrows went up. "I didn't realize. I was dead then. So was Connor."

That explained why the lightning had come down the street to find him. "I think it was a woman. Not young."

"Grace," Cassandra said and briefly closed her eyes. "I haven't heard from her at all, and she said she would be at the reunion. She was using the name Lisette Curine."

"That name was on the list of the dead," Methos confirmed, and Cassandra sadly shook her head. "She was a doctor," Methos said, remembering a Watcher chronicle. "Pity. I had hoped to meet her."

"She is a great loss," Cassandra said. "To us all."

Silence fell between them, a moment of tribute to Grace. Methos pieced together some of the impressions he had gathered that day, putting a name and a face to them now. A bird cheeped from one of the cedar trees, and beside them, the water flowed by in its concrete channel.

"The sky," Cassandra murmured in wonder. To the west, the sun was wreathed in clouds the color of blood.

"Impressive," Methos said. "Sunsets will be like that for years to come." She looked at him in confusion, and he added, "Because of the ash." Still no comprehension, and he prompted, "From the volcano?" That produced yet another blank stare, and he asked in exasperation, "Where have you been these last two weeks, Cassandra? In a cave?"

"Yes," she replied with tart aplomb. "In the Highlands. I left this morning."

Whereupon she had immediately called him. That lover's spat must have been a doozey, because either she hadn't bothered to check for messages, or Connor hadn't even bothered to say goodbye. Methos didn't see why it should be his job to help her keep track of her lovers.

"Where?" she was asking. "Iceland?"

Methos shook his head. "Yellowstone."

She hissed slightly, drawing in a sharp breath, and turned back to look at the gathering sunset with alarm instead of wonder. "Darkness and fire," she said softly, as if quoting. "The death toll could reach one billion."

"Eventually," he agreed. Most of this year's harvest in the northern hemisphere was in, but summer wouldn't come again for years because of the ash in the upper atmosphere. Not to mention the sulfurous acid that would soon fall to earth to kill the crops, contaminate the water, and poison the land. Food would be scarce. But on the bright side (or rather, on the dim side), global warming would be slowed. He sighed, feeling unutterably weary. However it played out, they were all in for a rough ride.

"This civilization will collapse," she said next, echoing his own thoughts.

"Possibly." He hoped they could reach the stars first. They were so close to finishing the first ship. They'd learned so much. These last centuries had been absolutely amazing, and yet they might lose it all.

What a damn stupid waste. He'd cached information here and there, but there was too much to store, and anyway, he knew from bitter experience how little of such a cache would survive through the dark times to see the light of day. It could be burned for fuel or drowned by a tsunami or eaten by goats. It could be discovered only to languish unread or completely unreadable on a dusty shelf. The monasteries had kept scraps of learning alive in Europe for a thousand years after Rome fell, but Europe's churches had become museums.

The Gaians, however, had temples. More than seven thousand according to his last report. And Phinyx had hospitals and schools around the globe, not to mention a security force with training in everything from policing to surveillance to guerilla warfare. Cassandra's organization was (quite deliberately, he knew) poised to be become a power in a post-apocalyptic world.

A low slant of light from the setting sun highlighted each hair on the nape of Cassandra's neck and picked it out in gold. She was silent, obviously thinking.

"Plotting again?" he asked.

"I prefer to call it planning," she replied. "But events are happening too fast. It's going to be much messier than I had hoped." She tilted her head and contemplated him. "Do you plot? Or plan?"

"Not for the last few thousand years," he replied. Not much, anyway.

"John," she said suddenly then explained, "Connor's older son. He and his wife lived in Colorado."

"Colorado's under ash," Methos said. "So unless they were traveling…"

"No," Cassandra said, and she seemed very sure. "They died, in darkness and fire."

Methos didn't like the sound of that. "Another prophecy?"

She was staring at the water again. "Sara was having dreams. Last summer, she told John he should move. But she didn't take it seriously, and so neither did he. And even if she had…" She shrugged. "People don't listen."

"You're not the only Cassandra to say that," he noted.

Her gaze went inward, remembering. "At first, her mother said the gift was a blessing. Later, a curse."

"When you did first go to Troy?" Methos asked, taking the opportunity to find out more.

"At Hecuba's marriage. She had come to our temple as a girl, and she asked me to be her priestess. I was midwife when her daughter Cassandra was born." She looked at the ruin of the sky. "And I was in Troy when the city fell."

He'd heard about that sacking from soldiers who returned. A few centuries after, Roland had boasted of taking Cassandra's head before setting fire to the town. Another lie from that pathetic man.

"I met Helen," Methos commented. "Twenty years after Troy fell, I was a military advisor at the royal court in Sparta." He'd gotten a lot of practice there. That entire civilization had crumbled within two generations, hit by wave after wave of plagues, revolts, famines, and wars, aided by an earthquake here and there.

"On sabbatical from the Horsemen, to learn new ways to sack and pillage, Methos?" Cassandra asked with bloody-minded sweetness. But then she added: "Or just trying to get away from Caspian's cooking?"

It seemed her makeover had gone deeper than just clothes. He'd never thought to hear a joke about the Horsemen from her. "That," he agreed, "and away from Silas's snoring."

That almost got a smile. He decided to tell her after all. "The MacLeods took a supply ship to North America a week ago."

She nodded with understanding, but her lips were pressed tight. "Because of John. And to help."

"They're young, and idealistic."

"And yet you think Duncan's ready for you?" she asked, more in curiosity than confrontation. "He doesn't understand you, Methos."

Methos knew that. He wanted Duncan to have the chance to learn. He wanted a partner again. "Does Connor understand you?" Methos challenged.

"No," she said, almost in a whisper. She looked at the water but didn't even try to reach it this time. "And I begin to think he never will."

She stood abruptly, and he rose, too. "Thank you for meeting me," she said formally.

"Thank you for calling me," he said with a smile, hoping to encourage her to call again. He didn't have to pretend with her; she already knew what—and who—he was … and who he had been. "Shall we go have a drink?" he suggested, even though he was betting she would answer no.

"Thank you, but I have work to do."

Not a bet he had wanted to win, but she was right; they both had work to do. Cassandra had already picked up her screamingly orange backpack and was walking away. "I like your hair," he dared to call after her. Fifty years ago, she hadn't much cared for his compliments.

But this time, she just turned, stopped long enough to smile back at him, then went on her way. Methos left whistling. That had gone well.

That night, he walked the streets and watched the fires burn as Guy Fawkes was consigned to the flames. When he woke the next morning, the sunrise was the color of blood and covered half the sky.

Red sky at night: sailor's delight.

Red sky at morning: sailors take warning.

* * *

><p><strong>Gulf of Mexico, 10 November 2048<strong>

* * *

><p>"I don't like the looks of that sky," Duncan said from the bridge of the ship.<p>

Connor turned to look out the window to the east, where heavy grey clouds were turning black. "Big storm," he agreed. The wind had picked up these last ten miles, but nothing more where they were—no rain, no hail, no waterspouts. The alert on the weather scope on was glowing orange, not blinking red, and they were already heading northwest, away from the storm. "We'll get rain," Connor predicted, "but we'll make port before dark."

"And then we'll deal with customs, load the semi-trailers that your friend Evann sent, and drive north to Colorado," Duncan said. "We could be there by Friday morning."

"That's the plan," Connor agreed, once again wishing the ship were going faster. He needed to get to John.

But plans, however well-laid, "gang aft agley." The rain came sure enough, great sheets of gray water with a gritty feel and a rotten-egg smell, just as they entered Galveston Bay. But they had to wait until Thursday morning to be inspected, and the custom duties and import fees (aka bribes and taxes) took nearly a third of their cargo.

"They're relief supplies," Duncan explained to the customs officer with his best charming smile. "They're meant to go north."

"We've got ash-refugees here," the man replied. "And more coming every day."

"We're happy to help them," Connor said, signing the papers, even though he knew the goods would most likely be sold instead of given away. He didn't have time to argue; he just wanted to be on his way.

"The goods can't be transported past Oklahoma," the officer warned as he took the papers from Connor's hand. "The ash lands have been declared a no-go zone, and the roads are buried."

"Then we'll drive as far as Oklahoma," Connor said equitably. They could walk the rest of the way.

"You're coming in-country?" The officer looked them over with unfriendly eye. "Are you citizens of the Lone Star State?"

"We have US passports," Duncan said. "And travel permits, signed by the US consul in Edinburgh."

"That's federal." He spat off to one side. "You need a state permit to travel in Texas."

"And where," Connor asked, trying not to grit his teeth too obviously as he dredged up the last of his patience, "do we get those?"

* * *

><p>Evann's workers loaded the trucks while Connor and Duncan spent two days navigating the bureaucratic maze. On Friday afternoon they finally started to drive north. The flat landscape was a dreary gray, everything dusted with a film of ash. The few people they saw outside wore filter masks. Traffic was light, and the wait to get through the checkpoints and tolls was short. "Good thing these trucks have the dark-energy motors," Duncan commented as they passed yet another gas station displaying a "NO GAS" sign.<p>

"Evann's been refitting her entire fleet," Connor said. The DE motors were still too large for a single-family vehicle, but could fit in trucks and trains.

Duncan raised an eyebrow. "Quite an investment."

"Paying off sooner than she expected."

"Is she still running that paramilitary school in Vermont?" Duncan asked. "The Themis Institute?"

"Yes," Connor confirmed. He'd visited the institute a few times back when he was living with Rachel in New York, even taught a class or two. Companies paid a premium price to have a Themis graduate on their security force, and some governments sent their special ops teams there for advanced training. "Matthew McCormick is there, too."

Duncan nodded, then they both settled back to nap as the truck drove itself down the road.

* * *

><p>Connor woke north of Denton, in a flat stretch between towns. This highway was busier; its tolls were actually used to keep it in repair. Their caravan of trucks had spread out along the road, with Connor and Duncan bringing up the rear. The sun had nearly set, and the thick black clouds gleamed with a sickly red sheen. Gusts of wind tugged at their truck, and it reduced its speed and set its windscreen wipers to fast as the blinding rain came down.<p>

But not every vehicle had safety features, and not every driver was cautious. As they approached an overpass, Connor watched as the crash unfolded in eerie silence ahead of them: the green van in front of them sliding sideways on the slick road until it scraped along the guard rail, then spinning across two lanes as the driver overcorrected. The van collided with a small brown car, which flipped over and slid, crashing through the guardrail and coming to a stop with its front end hanging precariously out into the air. A bus plowed into side of the van then turned sharply, flattening the van against a concrete barricade.

"Damn," Duncan swore in horror.

Connor switched the truck to manual control and began to slow it down. Their other trucks, oblivious to the crash behind them, had already disappeared. Duncan rummaged in the truck's cab and came up with an emergency kit. The truck had barely stopped moving when he jumped out the door. "Bring rope!" he yelled over his shoulder as and began running to the mangled cars.

Connor finished parking the truck sideways on the road to block oncoming traffic, turned on all its flashers, and then tried to raise the other drivers on his phone as he dug through their supplies for rope. He got no reception, either for them or for emergency services, but the truck was broadcasting a distress call. Maybe that would get through. He snatched a hat, a coat, and a flashlight, shouldered the rope, then went to help Duncan save some lives.

As Connor ran past, he could see that green van was a total loss; its driver was a trail of smeared jelly on the wall. The people in the bus looked shaken but fine, which meant he and Duncan could concentrate on the brown car.

Duncan ran up to join him, streaks of dark hair plastered down by the heavy rain. Connor was already soaked, but at least the hat kept the water from dripping into his eyes.

"I can't get in there yet," Duncan said as they both ran toward the brown car. "We need the rope to stabilize the vehicle, or it could tip and take them all down. I told them to keep still."

"How many are in it?"

"Two. One's a kid."

"Shit," Connor muttered.

"And one of them is an immortal."

Fuck. Connor hoped to God that wasn't the kid. If so, the adult might not even know. Well, whichever it was, they should get the mortal out first, if possible, then it wouldn't matter if the car tipped over the side. As soon as the car came into view, Connor felt the prickling sensation of another immortal.

"My sword is still in the truck," Duncan admitted.

Connor didn't comment on that. "I have mine." The prickles were fading as the quickenings adjusted to each other, and he reached out, using the techniques he'd been practicing these last few years, trying to pinpoint exactly where the immortal was.

Instead he found another quickening, very faint, yet very nearby. "There's a pre-immortal in that car," he told Duncan.

Duncan let out a gusty sigh. "Let's hope it's the kid. And that the immortal is decent."

They should find out. Connor raised an eyebrow, and Duncan nodded. But first, they had to get them out. Connor picked out a stanchion and secured the end of the line, while Duncan carried the other end to the car. Connor joined him at the car and nodded approvingly at Duncan's choice of knots around the car's rear axle. "Pull it back from the edge?" Connor suggested, and they tried, but couldn't move it.

Duncan sat down beside the car, warned the occupants, and kicked out a broken back window with the heel of his boot. He laid his jacket over the jagged edges then called, "You can come out now."

"Are the police or the medics with you?" a woman responded. Her accent sounded non-descript American, and her voice seemed young.

"Not yet," Duncan said.

"We'll wait," she said.

Duncan and he exchanged a rueful glance. Obviously, they'd found the immortal. They were lucky she hadn't shot at them. Connor understood her caution, and if there hadn't been a pre-immortal kid in there, he would have walked away right then. Then the woman yelled, "Tomas, no!" just as a head with short, dark curls appeared at the window.

"Come on, wiggle through," Duncan encouraged, reaching out his hand. A small hand took it, and a boy about five years old emerged. "Chelle's stuck," the boy reported once he was out, still holding onto Duncan's hand. "She said she wasn't hurt, but I think she is."

That explained why she hadn't stopped the boy, or come charging out after him. She must be frantic right now. That is, if she cared.

"I'm glad you came out, Tomas," Duncan said with a smile, staying low so that he was still eye to eye with the boy. "My name's Justin, and this is my friend Mike."

Tomas looked at Connor dubiously, and Connor winked. That made him laugh.

"Are you hurt?" Duncan asked.

Tomas shook his head then wiped his nose with the back of his hand before admitting, "My leg is sore."

"Let's take a look," Duncan said. "I have a medical kit just over there."

"But what about Chelle?"

"I'll get her," Connor said. No need to give medics a reason to start asking questions about how she healed. He hung his hat and his coat (with sword) on a nearby sign post and handed the flashlight to Duncan.

The ground was wet and cold, slippery with wet ash and the grime that accumulated on the side of the road. The window was just barely big enough for him to squeeze through. Inside, everything was squashed and upside down, and sticky with some liquid that smelled nauseatingly cherry-sweet. In the dimness, he could see the flash of the wary eyes of the other Immortal, hanging upside down in her seat. "How is he?" she demanded.

"We don't hurt children," Connor said flatly. Left unspoken was the obvious corollary: they would hurt adults, especially ones with swords. "Truce?" he asked before he got any closer.

It took her a moment. "Truce," she agreed.

Not that she had a choice. They had her boy, and she was stuck in a car. And if she did anything stupid, Connor had a partner just outside. He crawled closer along the ceiling that was now the floor, using elbows and knees. The metal framework of the car creaked and groaned and shifted like a ship at sea.

"My right foot is pinned," she told him evenly, but each word was tight, like it came through gritted teeth. He rolled onto his back and reached up with both hands, working by feel. Her shoe was a sensible low-heeled trainer, her ankle was slender. He met more stickiness, a lot of it, but this had the coppery scent of blood. His fingers soon told him why.

A shard of metal had punched through both her foot and the car, skewering her like a dead beetle on a board. He couldn't reach the far end, but the near end had a tapered, jagged edge, bent in the shape of an ell. "I need to get closer to straighten it," he told her, because he didn't have any leverage with just his fingertips.

"Go," she said, and she braced her hands on the ceiling as Connor slowly maneuvered into position, his head and shoulders nearly in her lap. The car tilted and creaked as the rain drummed down outside, and Chelle clicked her teeth together and hissed with pain as the metal slowly yielded to the pressure of his hands. Finally, the shard was straight. But she was still impaled.

Connor moved away from her and reached out to feel for available space. Just barely. "I can yank you backwards and pull it all the way through your foot," he told her then warned, "It'll hurt."

"No, really?" she said with sarcasm that would do a teenager proud. She exhaled slowly. "Do it."

"Angle your upper body toward me," he said, and she shifted his way. He hooked his arms under her shoulders, his forearms brushing against the curve of her breasts. He turned his head to avoid a mouthful of soft hair, took a breath, then yanked.

She let out a yip then followed it with "Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck," but she wasn't loose yet. Connor yanked again, cracking his elbow against the dashboard when she came free. Her steady stream of "fucks" turned into a deeply heartfelt, "Shit" before she started panting in pain.

"See you outside," Connor said and he wriggled backwards out the window into the rain. A strobe light near the bus signaled that the police had arrived. The cold raindrops flickered like fireflies in the pulsating white-blue light. Tomas was stomping in puddles near the side of the road, his leg obviously fine.

Connor put his hat on, but held his coat (with sword) over his arm, because Chelle was crawling out of the car head-first, and she was dragging a duffel bag long enough to hold a sword.

"Tomas?" she called before she'd finished extricating herself. He came splashing over as she got to her feet. As they hugged, she stomped her foot hard, and Connor could see her mouthing a silent and monotonous stream of curses above the boy's head as the bones settled into their proper places.

She took Tomas by the hand. "Thank you," she said to Connor and gave Duncan a nod. "I really do appreciate your help." She sounded sincere. "We'll be on our way now."

"How?" Connor asked pointedly, because her car was hopeless, and it was pouring rain and nearly dark.

"We'll be fine," she said, clearly wanting to get away from them.

"You can ride with us," Duncan offered and smiled persuasively at the boy. "It's a big truck. Tomas can sit up front and help drive."

Tomas said, "I can?" with great excitement, but Chelle's mouth twisted sardonically as she looked them over, because she obviously knew that no woman (mortal or immortal) should get into a truck with two strange men.

But then her gaze came to rest on his kinsman, and she peered through the rainy gloom. "Duncan?"

He peered back. "Michelle?" He took half a step forward. "Michelle Webster?"

"Just Chelle," she said. "And the last name's been Dominguez for a while now."

They were both smiling, and Connor realized he'd just rescued another one of Duncan's girlfriends.

Chelle turned to Connor, her smile fading into a pugnacious wariness. "You must be Connor."

Slimy with mud, sticky with cherry juice, and dripping wet, Connor tipped his hat to the former damsel in distress. "Ma'am."

* * *

><p>"I knew her parents back in Seacouver," Duncan explained as he and Connor got cleaned up. They'd stopped at the first place that had electricity and water: a truck-stop just across the river that formed the border between Texas and Oklahoma. "Michelle crashed her car when she was eighteen," Duncan went on. "That was … fifty-four years ago. I explained the game; then Amanda took over."<p>

"Amanda," Connor repeated flatly. "And how long did that last?"

"Six months," Duncan admitted. "Amanda took her to Ceirdwyn."

Connor held his tongue and pulled his tunic over his head. When he emerged, Duncan was waiting, looking weary and exasperated.

"What?" Duncan asked.

Since he asked… "Amanda made a better decision than you did."

"She often does," Duncan answered serenely.

That was patently untrue, and they both knew it. Connor took the hint and let it go. As he reached for his socks, he asked, "What was Chelle like before?"

"Surly. Rebellious. Didn't want to listen." Duncan shrugged. "She was bored."

People treated their offspring as children way too long these days. She had probably stopped being bored as soon as people starting hunting her for her head. Connor finished lacing his boots and stood. "What's she want with Tomas?"

Duncan gave the towel a snap before hanging it up to dry. "Let's find out."

* * *

><p>"I'm taking Tomas to Ceirdwyn's school in Ohio," Chelle explained over a dinner of canned vegetable beef stew and stale rolls in the eating plaza of the truck-stop.<p>

Even with the lousy food, the place was crowded with stranded, tired travelers. About a dozen were standing in front of a message board festooned with scraps of paper. Duncan had found a note from one of their drivers there, saying they were pushing on to Oklahoma City tonight. Between the ash still in the atmosphere, the ash toppling transmission towers, and the ash causing flashovers on electric lines, phone service was erratic enough to be useless.

Tomas was curled up asleep on the bench beside Chelle, his cheek pillowed on his hand, his dark curls shining against the faded red leather. Connor remembered John looking like that, years ago. In Morocco, they had often gone to the roof in the evening then fallen asleep looking at the stars, with John's small body curled against his for warmth.

Connor hadn't seen any stars since Florida, nearly six days ago.

"How is Ceirdwyn?" Duncan was asking Chelle.

"Good. Busy with the school."

Connor needed to be sure about Chelle before he let Tomas go with her. A lot could change in fifty years. "Anyone else at the school?"

"Besides the students?" she asked, with a tone that had mellowed over the years from surly to merely insolent.

Connor didn't answer, just waited, and Chelle didn't look to Duncan for help, just kept looking back. She'd braided her dark hair tightly, in a style too severe for her narrow face and delicate features, and her faded blue jacket was too big for her. Her eyes were dark gray, like the loch before a storm. She would be pretty, if she smiled.

Chelle held up a hand and began ticking off jobs. "The school has a gardener and a cook, who are also parents of students, a math teacher, and two security guards, both graduates of Themis Institute. Gregor Powers and Ceirdwyn are the other teachers, and they run the place. Matthew McCormick taught there for a few years, a decade ago."

Connor waited for more, because jobs and names alone weren't that hard to come by.

Her gaze slowly shifted from challenging to accepting, and she provided a bona fide: "Ceirdwyn said she met the two of you at a fair in Scotland, where Duncan was buying ribbons for the braids in his hair." She smiled at Duncan. "Ceirdwyn said the ribbons were a lovely blue."

"They were," Duncan agreed, smiling in return.

Chelle looked back at Connor. "I asked Matthew if you four were the 'immortal Celtic brigade' with three Macs and a warrior princess, but he said he was a Norman, Matthew of Salisbury, and that he didn't use the name McCormick until he came to America in 1762." She tilted her head, and the challenge was back in her eyes. "Need more?"

Connor ignored her question. "How'd you find the boy?"

"His name is Tomas," she said pointedly.

Connor acknowledged that with a nod, pleased with her response, though he didn't let that show.

"When someone reports a primmie to Ceirdwyn, I go check it out," she explained. "Usually, we just keep an eye on them, but if it's a bad family situation, we take the kid to the school. We like to use a mortal escort, because an immortal attracts attention from the wrong people, but things are weird now and travel's getting complicated, so Ceirdwyn asked me to bring in Tomas right away." She looked down at Tomas with a fond smile. "People think I'm his nanny."

"Why would immortals tell Ceirdwyn about pre-immortals?" Duncan asked.

"She pays a hefty finder's fee. It's not enough to stop the predators from killing primmies whenever they find them and then taking their Quickenings—no amount would be—but most people are happy to get the money."

"You get paid, too?" Connor asked.

"Yes, I do," Chelle answered evenly. "For my expenses and my time. Not everybody has centuries of investments to live off of. And working is better than stealing." Chelle turned to Duncan, "How's Amanda?"

"Good," Duncan answered. "I saw her a year ago, near Paris." He ate the last of his roll in one bite. "Why the name Dominguez?"

"From my third husband." Duncan looked askance at that, and she asked, "What? I'm too young?" Her teasing carried an edge of sharpness.

"No, I just…" He gave her the slow and appreciative smile that would make any woman forgive anything he'd said, no matter how clueless. "I haven't seen you in a while."

Chelle thawed some, but didn't melt completely, and Connor revised his earlier assumption. Duncan, though woefully bad at selecting a teacher, did have scruples; he wouldn't have taken an eighteen–year-old new immortal to his bed. Chelle and Duncan weren't lovers.

"Have many times have you been married, Duncan?" she asked.

"Once," Duncan replied.

Her dark eyebrows lifted in surprise, and her gaze wandered here and there, searching Duncan's face, lingering at his broad shoulders and his hands.

Connor revised his opinion again: those two weren't lovers yet.

Then she turned to Connor. "And you?"

"Three."

"But not now," Chelle observed, glancing at his left hand.

She wasn't wearing a wedding ring, either, but that was no concern of his. None of this was, he was relieved to see. Chelle did know Ceirdwyn and Matthew, and her story matched Cassandra's descriptions of the school. Most importantly, Chelle cared about Tomas, which meant that Connor and Duncan didn't have to delay anymore.

Their table's phone-reader was taped over with a sign that said "Ash-fucked", so Connor looked around for the waitress, caught her eye, and signaled for the bill.

"What brought you two to the great Lone Star State of Texas?" Chelle asked, mashing the epithets together with a careless disregard that would make any true Texan gnash their teeth or spit. "And why the big truck?"

Connor let Duncan say it.

"Connor's son John is in Colorado," Duncan explained. "We're going to go help."

"Help," she repeated flatly. "In Colorado." Her narrowed gaze flicked back and forth between them before she shook her head. "You have got to be fucking kidding me."

Duncan slouched down in his seat a bit and stared at the table, leaving this reply to Connor.

Connor shrugged.

"That plan is not just stupid," Chelle proclaimed. "It's galactically stupid."

Connor started stacking the bowls.

"The roads are buried," Chelle warned. "You truck won't get halfway through Kansas."

Connor shrugged again. "Then we'll walk."

"And eat what?" she asked. "Drink what?" She leaned forward, her voice quiet and intense, to ask: "Breathe what?"

"We're immortal," Connor reminded her.

"No shit," she said.

She had a mouth on her, that was for sure. Connor didn't care for women who swore, but right now, he just didn't care. He needed to get to John.

"I was in Montana when Yellowstone blew," Chelle was saying. "That's only the edge of the ashlands, and I barely made it out. Everything is dead: the birds, the plants, the animals. When you breathe ash, you suck ground glass into your lungs."

"It's been three weeks," Duncan pointed out. "The ash is settled now."

"Yeah," she agreed slowly. "And in some places, the ash has settled thirty feet deep. Colorado's in the blast zone, you know."

Connor knew. But John and Gina had a basement, stocked with emergency supplies. They could be holed up in there. His son could be depending on him, waiting for him.

Hoping for him.

* * *

><p><strong>The Ashlands<strong>

* * *

><p>Somewhere in the ash field that used to be western Kansas, Connor woke up.<p>

Rain slapped him in the face, cold and stinging. To the east shimmered the dim, gray light of dawn. Duncan woke, nodded good morning, then pulled his blanket farther over his head, so that only the tip of his nose appeared. Connor stood and stretched then walked through the rain to a pile of ash that was taller than the rest. Maybe it was on top of a hill. Maybe it was on top of a car. He couldn't tell.

Just to the north, the curved top of a silo poked up from the pale ash, like a spotted red mushroom in an early snowfall. Not far from him was a triangular hump of ash that marked a roof. Other than that, the place looked like the moon. Flat, featureless, gray, and dead. Yesterday, they hadn't even seen any carcasses. Just the ash.

He licked the rainwater off his lips, but the liquid was already gritty with the fine powder of pulverized ash. He and Duncan both looked as if they were wearing powdered wigs. The insides of their noses had cracked to bleeding a dozen times, and their eyes were red with irritation. The damn powder was everywhere, in every crevice, in every pore, and it itched.

Connor stripped to let the rain run over him and wash away the dust. The water was cold, but it was clean, and his skin drank up the moisture. He tilted his face to the sky and caught the raindrops directly on his tongue. The air played over his skin, and a shiver rippled from the nape of his neck down his spine as the quickening thrummed in his veins, seeking other life.

Ramirez had taught him of this, centuries ago, with the stag in the Highlands. The quickening let you touch the essence of another living creature, so that you were tasting grass, scenting the musk of another male, feeling the weight of antlers while your hooves pounded on the sand. Through the years, Connor had connected with other creatures: red deer, a rabbit, a fox, an eagle, even a dolphin as he sailed to the Sandwich Isles while the wind snapped the canvas sails.

Two years ago, in the Alps with Cassandra, he had touched the world.

* * *

><p>"It's May Day," Connor said, looking into her eyes. "Come to the woods with me." She smiled and took his hand, and they climbed through dark pine forests to a meadow bright with sunshine and flowers. There they shed their clothes and joined with each other under the wide sky, in the ancient rite of spring.<p>

After, as they lay side by side in the grass, a mouse wandered near, and Connor reached out to join with it, delighting in the quiver of whiskers and the wave of a tail. Then he reached deeper, into the earth, finding blind burrowing grubs in the soil between gnarled roots of trees. He followed their twisted pathways to the great trunks that rose straight and tall, all the way up to the leaves opening to the sun and the tiny insects that fluttered high.

He blinked and came back to himself, and Cassandra was there, smiling at him, holding his hand, crowned with sunshine in her hair. Impulsively, Connor reached out to her, a delicate tendril of connection, and she gasped as the dark of her green eyes grew wide, much as she had done earlier that afternoon when he had touched her in a different way.

But the immortal quickening between them was piercing in its brightness and painful in its spark, like juggling live coals, and they both snapped the connection, though she still held his hand.

"We'll need to prepare for that," she observed. "But today, I think you could go farther than you've ever done before."

He had felt the power, too, that sense of belonging, and the veil between the worlds was thin at Beltane. So Connor let his quickening flow out and deep and high, so that he touched fish and gnat and flower, and saw every blade of grass and touched every lichen on every stone, until his feet were the lodged in roots of the mountains and his eyes were of the sky, and his skin was the earth and his blood was the sea, and his heart beat with the tides.

Finally, he come back to himself, come back in himself, with a slow contented sigh, and the earth was warm beneath his back, and the air was soft on his skin, and he lay there just breathing, still amazed and awed, until he felt the gentle touch of Cassandra's lips upon his brow.

He opened his eyes to see her smiling down at him. "Welcome back," she said.

"Hey," he replied, smiling in return. Then he frowned, because the afternoon sun wasn't where it was supposed to be, and she had her clothes back on. Unlike himself. "How long was I…" He couldn't say "there" and he couldn't say "gone" because he'd been everywhere, with everything.

"It's nearly noon," she said.

"All night?" he asked in disbelief, sitting up. It had seemed like an hour. Or maybe a century.

"Sometimes, at the temple, we would spend days." Her smile was wistful. "That's the power of the quickening as I first learned it. To connect with life, not deal out death."

When he took a head, he felt that connection, the total awareness, but it was excruciating, like having your skin peeled off and your nerves set on fire. The aftermath was worse than a hangover, and could last for days. But now, he felt rested and alert and … well, fucking marvelous.

Cassandra apparently knew that, wise woman that she was, for she was already taking off her clothes. And the touch of her skin was like velvet and her hair was like silk, and it was fucking marvelous, in every way.

Afterwards, he was hungry. Cassandra handed him an apple. He munched away, sitting cross-legged and naked on the grass. The juice exploded with sweetness, and the rocks of the mountain spoke of the deeps of the oceans and of ancient fires, and the sky was a marvelous cerulean blue. An eagle was soaring above, and he shifted his wings so that his feathers could capture the wind, eagerly hunting for fresh meat—

Connor pulled back and bit his tongue, then tightened each finger and toe, resetting the limits of his body. He'd never connected that quickly before. It would be easy to get lost. "Did you … do something yesterday?" he asked Cassandra.

"I helped you open the door," she said. "You stepped through it on your own." She asked curiously, "What were you?"

"The world," he said simply.

"The world?" Cassandra repeated in awe then shook her head in wonder. "I never went that deep. The Lady would sometimes."

"It was … easy," Connor said. "Natural."

Her smile was wistful again. "I'm glad for you."

"Do you connect often?"

"We would hold the ritual every year, in the cave of the winds. But I haven't, not since I left." She reached for her clothes and started to dress.

She'd left the temple thirty-three hundred years ago. Connor leaned back on his elbows to watch her. Her movements were unhurried, and her face was calm. She was bothered. "Didn't you miss it?" he asked.

Her hands paused then she looked up to meet his eyes. "Yes," she said. "But it's not safe to do alone."

She'd been alone for a very long time. "I'll watch over you," Connor offered. "Like you watched over me."

Her smile started with her eyes. Then she leaned over and kissed him, and her hair brushed against his skin. Connor reached for her hand. "Thank you," she said, still close enough to kiss, so he did.

"Maybe on the solstice," he suggested, as he reached for his own clothes while she put on her shoes. "On Holy Ground."

"A good idea," she agreed. "Until then, we could work on connecting with each other. I'd like that."

Connor caught her hand and held it before saying, "So would I."

* * *

><p>They never did. Connor connected easily with animals and learned to hear the heartbeats of trees, but mortals kept up a steady hum of thought, and it was like dodging four lanes of traffic to reach them. Immortals were easy to find and then to reach, but they burned.<p>

"You're too hot to handle," Cassandra had said, making a jest of it even as she winced and pulled away. "Maybe we're too close?" she had suggested, so they had moved to different corners and then to different rooms, and then to different parts of the school.

They did learn to locate the immortal sensation more precisely and how to extend their range (which would be very useful in a hunt), but nothing more intimate. "We can still share in other ways," Cassandra had said with an inviting smile, and they did.

But she didn't want to share anything with him now. At Sara's grave, Cassandra had said she couldn't bear to near him. So he'd given her the space she'd asked for and walked away.

He'd kept walking. Now he stood a continent and an ocean away, upon a field of ash in a blasted land, on a quest to find his son. This trackless waste was more like hell than holy ground, but Duncan was near and no one else was. And Connor needed to find John.

Connor turned from the east to face the mountains in the west, with feet apart and arms spread wide, listening to the wind, tasting the rain, and feeling the gritty softness of ash between each toe and the flow of air between each finger. Then he opened himself to the world.

No creatures nearby, no tiny lives, no swaying trees or hunting hawks. Here was heat and fire and ash. He reached farther, across the plains to the mountains, to where the bones of the earth were laid bare. Red magma pulsated within the stony heart of the volcano, sometimes bursting forth in arterial spray, sometimes seeping slowly over the black and crusted scabs. But that lava would be stone itself in time. Stones told the story; stones carried their history within.

John had a stone from the Highlands, carefully placed into the wall that he and Connor had built years ago. Connor remembered that stone, the heft of it, the color in the sun, the feel of it in his hands. And so he reached for it, searching for the rock from the place of his own birth, the rock that was alien here, but home to him.

He found it, somehow, and from the stone he traced the wall, and from the wall he found John's house. And in the bedroom, side by side, John and Gina lay. But nothing moved there. Nothing lived. The ash was a brutal blanket, a shroud of gray that blocked out sun and sky and air.

John was dead.

Swiftly, as an arrow from a bow, Connor came back to himself, back to his body, down on its knees with head bowed, his hands outspread and reaching, but finding only ash and air.

"Ah, John," he whispered with scorching sorrow, but no surprise.

For he'd known—deep-down—for days. For weeks. But he hadn't wanted to let go. He hadn't wanted to give up. He simply could not bear to lose another child so soon.

Almost a month it had been now since Sara had died, and once again, Connor knelt in rain, and once again, it hurt to breathe.

When Connor came back to their camp that morning, Duncan was waiting for him, patient and steady, like a rock. Connor picked up his pack, nodded to his kinsman, and started to walk. Duncan hesitated for only a moment, then followed.

They went east, back the way they had come. Behind them, the volcano smoldered, brooding over its fields of ash and dust. The sun was rising.

* * *

><p><strong>London, England – December 2049<strong>

* * *

><p>A year after the bombing, Cassandra had business in London, so she took advantage of the opportunity to go to the park and see the Pieto memorial, dedicated two months before. She had not expected to find Methos there.<p>

"I like your hair," Methos told her in greeting.

"Thank you," she replied. "I like yours."

A smile flickered on his lips, and she knew it matched the smile flickering on hers: mostly ironic, a touch wistful, a little pleased. And definitely amused. Their hairstyles were nearly identical: the shoulder-length and slightly tousled style currently favored by the young. She was still blonde but no longer had black tips. He'd stopped adding gray and shaved his beard. At this meeting, they looked nearly the same age. Even their clothes were similar, though his were more colorful than hers. She'd come straight from the temple and was still in an acolyte's garb of green and gray.

The burned hotel had been razed, and the lot was still empty. They walked in silence with two other pilgrims along the path in the Grove of Remembrance, to the tree where Sara had died. The memorial was carved of white marble, but left unpolished, so that only the splash of scarlet gleamed. The sculptor had captured the essence of grief in the bowed head and empty, helpless hand, but wrought the faces and figures so they that were ageless and androgynous. They could be anyone.

They were everyone.

Flowers lay on the black granite base, hiding some of the words that had been etched in an endless circle: Friend – Child – Partner – Lover – Sibling - Colleague – Spouse – Sweetheart – Parent – Friend – Child…

Cassandra closed her eyes and remembered Sara, then silently named others she had loved in years gone by. When she opened her eyes, she saw an old man placing a red rose atop the word "Spouse." He paused a moment then moved on. A child knelt to trace the letters with a finger while his mother sat on the ground amid fallen leaves. The site worked well: a place of grief, a place of healing.

"This was well done," Methos commented.

Cassandra did not care to imagine what Connor would have had to say.

"Do you know the artist?" Methos asked.

"I've never met her." Cassandra answered. "She's from Finland." The artist had been moved by the bombing to offer her skills, and had recently announced she considered herself a Gaian. She wasn't alone. The volcano had prompted many to take Mother Earth seriously.

"Replicas of the sculpture are selling well," Methos commented. "I've seen them about."

"Yes," Cassandra murmured. Connor would have had something to say about that as well.

"Pity there's such a market for it," Methos said. "Any news on the bomber?"

"No," she agreed. No news.

He nodded. "Because your sisters are keeping it quiet."

She didn't bother to ask how he had heard. "Wouldn't you?"

"Oh, definitely. That story is ugly no matter how it's spun."

Erika's investigation had yielded bitter fruit. A young woman, raised from birth in a religion that preached women should be unseen and unheard, had been sent as a spy to infiltrate "the godless clutch of whores", then kept in line from afar by threats to her immortal soul … and more than threats to her mother and sister and infant son. She'd been told her death would bring them freedom.

"What is the Sisterhood doing about it?" Methos asked.

"Taking care of it quietly," Cassandra answered. The Guardians had rescued the family before the assassination team had gone in. The conversion effort would take a generation or more: infiltration, seduction, education, more assassination if necessary, relocation … all time-tested techniques.

A woman with hair the color of honey walked by, then stopped and turned back to look again. Cassandra bowed her head as if in prayer, a polite way to ignore her, and after a moment the woman moved on.

"Old friend?" Methos asked softly.

"Once." Giselle had been a colleague in London some years ago. A lifetime ago. "I keep hearing how greatly I resemble my Aunt Laina."

"You're treading the same ground, joining Gaian temples where people knew her." He examined her clothes. "Still only an acolyte? You've had over a year."

"First vows take a year," she explained. "The ceremony is on the solstice. Then I'll be joining the Reverend Mother's personal staff."

"Ah," he said, with a knowing nod. "The advisor behind the throne. Much safer."

"Yes," she agreed without irony then realized she hadn't spoken the truth so openly to anyone in more than a year. Methos was unnervingly easy to talk to. He was unshockable, and he seemed genuinely interested in her life. It was time to talk about him. "And are you captain of your spaceship yet, Methos?" she asked.

"I am a young and eager junior engineer. The work in India is going very well, and we plan to launch in a few years." He drew a deep breath. "Rather, we hope to launch. Power is erratic, and we've been scavenging old cars for the rare earths and metals we need."

People should have been doing that type of recycling all along.

"The edifice of civilization is undermined from beneath," he said. "The edges crumble. Then the center falls, with a suddenness that astounds."

That sounded like a quote, but she didn't recognize it. "I hear wolves are in the abandoned cities in the north," she said.

"It's when they're in the inhabited cities that we really have to worry," he said wryly.

"Like old times."

"Like old times," he agreed. "Back then I followed the sun." He looked up to the sky, milky blue between branches of the tree. "Now I follow the stars."

He really was an eager engineer. She hadn't realized he wanted this so badly. But why not? New worlds. New chances. New life. Even the Earth would not last forever. Cassandra looked up at the same pale sky. "I had a dream," she quoted softly, "which was not all a dream. The bright sun was extinguish'd, and the stars did wander darkling in the eternal space."

Methos hunched his shoulders, the start of a shrug, then started to walk.

Cassandra went with him. "Did you know Byron wrote that soon after Krakatau erupted?"

"Yes." He didn't seem interested, and Cassandra let it go. When they reached the road, Methos suggested, "Care for a drink?"

They'd had a drink together before, back in Brighton half a century ago. It was time. "Yes," she agreed, and their ironic smiles flickered once again. They went to the White Horse Inn, not far away. Cassandra paid for their beer. They talked of this and that, easily, with Cassandra telling stories of past students and Methos sharing a cautionary tale of the spiciness of Indian food.

Then they fell silent, and Cassandra found herself looking about and wondering how much longer people would be this civilized. When she looked at Methos, she saw he was doing the same. Their eyes met, and their smiles were rueful this time.

"How are the reports from North America?" he asked.

"Becoming less frequent. Communication is breaking down. The west is dead, except for some enclaves on the Pacific Coast, but they're isolated. The South seceded from the United States; then Texas destroyed the bridges to Oklahoma and to Louisiana, closing all their borders, and seceded from the South."

"Maybe San Antonio will secede from Texas," Methos suggested then lifted his beer and stared moodily at the dark liquid, shaking his head. "Tribalism again." Then he tilted his head to look at her. "And yet religion could unite us all."

"It has before," she said. "Religion is simply a bigger tribe, and it can span boundaries of nations and languages. Though our nations are shrinking, and the cities are, too. People are already leaving for the country and the small towns." Especially towns with schools, and Phinyx had four hundred thousand of those.

"That rural migration is happening in Europe, too," he said. He lifted his glass in an ironic half-toast. "But we're not eating each other."

Not here, at least. Not yet. There had been that one report from Kansas…

"Hungry?" he asked, and they ordered dinner from the limited options on the menu. They spoke only of books during the meal, nothing personal, nothing new.

When they left, it was full dark outside. As they stood just outside the doorway, adjusting gloves and hats, Methos asked, "Any news on the MacLeods?"

"No," she admitted, wishing again—for the thousandth time—that she had never told Connor to leave. "You?"

Methos shook his head. "Not a word."

* * *

><p><em><strong>Continued in "The Lamb" - in which immortality comes too soon<strong>_


	23. The Lamb

**THE LAMB**

* * *

><p><em><strong>Fairhill Academy, Ohio River Valley, Winter 2050<strong>_

* * *

><p>"The head's the tricky part," Duncan explained to the watching students. He took firm hold and pulled. With a soft squelching pop, the nose came loose, and then the skin separated from the carcass. The raccoon pelt hung inside-out and limp from Duncan's hand. Blood dripped slowly onto the snow, and steam rose in the cold air.<p>

Three of the students stepped back with "ewws" of disgust. Jero and Tomas stepped forward, bending a bit to see better. "What will you do with it?" asked Jero, a lanky girl of fourteen. Tomas was, as usual, sticking his tongue in and out of the gap where his two front teeth had recently been, but watching everything with intensely curious eyes.

"This makes stew," Duncan said, holding up the skinned carcass. Raccoon wasn't the tastiest of dishes, but food was food. "And this makes a hat." He held up the skin. "But first, we need to clean them. Take out your knives."

They set to work: gutting and cleaning and scraping. They were almost finished when Duncan sensed another immortal. Even after eight months of living with Connor and Gregor and Ceirdwyn on a few acres of ground (holy though it was), Duncan reacted automatically: alert almost to the point of tension, aware of all weapons close to hand and the weight of his sword by his side, and scanning the area for threats.

On the far side of the central courtyard, between the academic hall and the gym, he saw Ceirdwyn. Walking next to her was a dark-skinned man Duncan didn't know. The man had his hands in his pockets, but his head up, his face was intent, and his eyes were scanning for threats. Ceirdwyn said something, and the man nodded then gave Duncan a friendly wave. Even from this distance, Duncan could see the man's wide smile. Duncan waved back, and Ceirdwyn and the newcomer went into the academic hall, where Ceirdwyn had an office.

"Let's get this finished," Duncan said to the students. "It'll be dark soon." And he wanted to meet the new immortal.

* * *

><p>"Baden was our first adult student," Ceirdwyn explained as she performed introductions in the staff lounge before dinner. She set the tray with glasses next to the bottles on the carved oak sideboard, and the motion set the looped braids of her dark hair swinging, just above her shoulders.<p>

Duncan hadn't seen that hairstyle on her before. The braids were neat and controlled, yet feminine, and the loops added a touch of playfulness. It suited her.

Gregor and Ceirdwyn poured out the drinks and passed them around, and Duncan half-closed his eyes as he settled back in the armchair near the fire with a whisky in his hand. The scent was sharp and spicy, with a hint of lemon. The first sip mingled bitter and sweet with flavors of coffee and orange marmalade, and the familiar bite on the lips and tongue. He sighed contentedly then lifted his glass in a silent shared a toast with Connor, who was standing near the window, and then toasted Ceirdwyn, too. She smiled back as she poured her own whisky to drink.

Zachary, in his customary corner near the bookshelves, sipped moodily at his gin and tonic. Baden, like Gregor, was drinking his vodka neat. Duncan checked out the newcomer, up close this time. Baden was about the same build as Connor, but looked about forty. The tight black curls of his hair were going gray on the sides, and not all the wrinkles around his brown eyes were from laughing. He was half-sitting on the arm of the leather sofa, one knee bent and his foot propped up high.

"We were still getting settled at this school," Ceirdwyn said, spreading her skirts out with one hand as she sat on the chair opposite Duncan. "When Baden took over the kitchen, he made the best pineapple upsidedown cake I'd ever had."

"Had to pay you back somehow," Baden replied, smiling cheerfully. "Especially after you taught me how to really handle a sword, even like this." He held up his right arm, which ended in a prosthetic hand. The scars showed stark and pale against the ink-black skin, halfway between elbow and wrist. "This works fine," he said, clenching his artificial fingers and then wiggling them one at a time, "but it's still a damn good thing I'm a leftie. Just that saved my head a time or two."

In the corner, Zachary nervously set to work polishing his glasses with a handkerchief. Eight years ago, Ceirdwyn had advertised for a math teacher, and a forty-one-year-old pre-immortal had applied for the job. Ceirdwyn had taken him on as teacher and then as student, warning him of what was to come. Zachary was trying, but he had no aptitude for swordwork, and he was terrified of getting into the Game. And he wasn't getting any younger.

Duncan resisted the familiar impulse to take those glasses away and instead asked Baden, "How'd you lose the hand?"

"Got it shot up pretty bad in Iraq, so the docs had to take it off. My second tour. Guess that would have been …" He stared up at the ceiling to count. "… forty-three years now."

"Marine?" Connor guessed.

"Ooh-rah!" Baden confirmed proudly.

Duncan wasn't surprised; warrior attitude didn't come about by chance.

"How many students have gone through the school?" Baden asked, turning the conversation away from himself.

"Seventeen have graduated, and we have files on another thirty-one," Gregor replied. "Twelve have become immortal. Though we're almost certain that two of them—and three pre-immortals—are buried in the ash."

"Damn," Baden swore. "Are they alive under there?" Then he went grim as he thought it through. "I hope not."

"You stay dead if there's no air," Duncan said, remembering what Methos and Nefertiri had said about being buried.

"That's right," Gregor confirmed.

"I had a friend who was buried by Mt. Vesuvius," Ceirdwyn said. "She said she didn't remember anything until they dug her out seventeen hundred years later, when they started to excavate Pompeii."

"Still…" Baden shook his head. "Hell of a way to die, especially the first time. Hey, is Preston under the ash?" Baden asked Gregor, sounding more eager than worried.

But Gregor shook his head. "Preston became an immortal six years ago, and he was living in New Jersey."

"Damn."

"Another student," Ceirdwyn explained to Connor and Duncan and Zachary.

"I should have killed him before he left here," Baden said.

"He was sixteen, and he didn't even know how to use a sword," Ceirdwyn reminded Baden sharply. "And he had no idea he was an immortal."

"I would have told him," Baden said with a display of affronted innocence then added to himself, "Just before I cut off his head."

"What's wrong with Preston?" Zachary asked.

"He's a little shit," Baden replied succinctly.

"He was a bully," Ceirdwyn admitted. "And he had a temper. But many people do, especially when they're young." She looked at Baden to say, "You did."

And people change. Duncan knew that well. Besides, you couldn't go around beheading unarmed teenagers just because they were obnoxious.

Ra'el pushed open the door, and that conversation died. Her cheeks were pink from cold and her short red hair had been ruffled by the wind. Her glance swept the room, checked at Baden, then focused on Gregor. "Tomas fell out of a tree and broke his arm," she announced.

"Badly?" Connor asked immediately, but he didn't sound surprised.

Duncan wasn't either. Tomas had needed stitches the month before. Last summer, he'd nearly burned down a building with a magnifying glass. Then there had been that time in the barn… Connor generally referred to Tomas as "that little scamp" but always with a fond and rueful grin. Tomas followed Connor around like a puppy. They were good for each other.

Ra'el shook her head. "Simple fracture, left arm."

Gregor sighed but set down his glass on the sideboard then picked up his coat. Ceirdwyn handed him the black medical bag from the closet. She had already dressed for outside. "Want help?" Duncan offered.

"Thank you, we'll be fine," Ceirdwyn said, and she and Gregor left the room.

Ra'el had now zeroed her attention on Baden, and he got to his feet as she strode over to him. "I'm Ra'el," she announced, holding out her left hand. "Stef and I are Guardians here."

"Baden," he replied, with a glance and a grin at the proffered hand before he shook it heartily. Her answering grip was equally strong, and they were both regarding each other with appreciation when they let go. "I'm an old friend of Ceirdwyn's," Baden explained.

Ra'el looked over at Duncan and Connor and then back to Baden. "Another old friend?"

"Well," Baden drawled, "not _that_ old." He winked and she laughed, and they agreed to "see you around."

She turned, spotted Gregor's abandoned drink, and wordlessly claimed it for her own. As she put down the empty glass, she smiled at Duncan. "See you at nine?"

"Nine it is," Duncan agreed, as he had many times before, and she left with a banging of the door.

Baden lifted an eyebrow as he sat down in Gregor's former chair. "So… I take it she's taken?"

"That's for Ra'el to say," Duncan replied. "She's her own woman."

"So is Stef," Connor put in, though not—Duncan knew—from direct experience. When he and Connor had arrived at the school eight months ago, Stef and Ra'el had both been warmly welcoming. Connor had politely ignored their overtures, and then turned down a delicately worded but unmistakable invitation to Stef's bed.

Duncan had been startled into asking: "Are you and Cassandra being exclusive?"

"No."

Duncan had watched as his silent kinsman left the dining hall. "He's grieving," Duncan had told the two women later. "He lost one family member in the London bombing, and then another a few days later in the ash. " And Duncan suspected that something had gone wrong—again—between Cassandra and Connor. Since they'd gotten word of the volcano, Connor hadn't mentioned her at all.

Probably Cassandra, like Chelle, had told Connor that looking for John was a hopeless quest. Duncan had long ago learned to give Connor the time and space he needed to figure things out on his own. This century, Connor had gotten better about returning that courtesy.

"Connor doesn't want to talk about it," Duncan had warned Stef and Ra'el. "So it's best to leave him alone. He just needs time." And to keep busy. Teaching was good for Connor, and so were the kids.

"Do you need time?" Ra'el had asked with a directness that was charming with its enthusiasm.

"I have all the time in the world," Duncan had replied with a grin, since Elena and Amanda and Kate were half a world away, and Ceirdwyn was with Gregor now. That night Ra'el came to his room. Stef appeared a few weeks later, though never both at the same time, no matter what Connor might think. Nor were they Duncan's harem; he rather got the sense that they were the ones taking turns with him. He didn't mind. It was fun, it was friendly, and they were lovely young women.

And if Ra'el or Stef—or both—decided to visit Baden now, Duncan had no expectations and no claims. "It's their choice," he said to Baden.

The younger man nodded, looking thoughtful, then asked, "That 'old friend' comment… She knows, right?"

"No," Connor replied. "Ra'el and Stef have been here only eighteen months, and we're careful."

Baden raised both his eyebrows this time then gave his attention to his drink, finishing half of it. "Good stuff," he said, tilting his glass and holding it up high.

"Saved just for special occasions," Duncan replied.

Baden acknowledged that with a pleased nod, but then his mouth twisted in a frown. "Getting hard to find, I know. Like a lot of things. How's the school set for food? Ceirdwyn still stockpiling in the basements?"

"Yes," Zachary said, speaking up for the first time. "By my calculations, we can feed everyone for two years on basic rations, factoring in body mass and caloric requirements, including the growth of the children here now. I've recommended we supplement by hunting and growing as much as we can. With such supplements, and on three-quarter rations, our stores could last nearly four years."

Baden blinked a little, so Duncan explained, "Zachary's the math teacher here. And the school's bookkeeper."

"Glad to have you," Baden said then added a wry grin. "Means I don't have to do the numbers."

"You like math?" Zachary asked, perking up.

But Baden shook his head. "Artillery calculations and poker odds are about as far as I go. Hey," he said suddenly, "maybe we can get a game going? Once a week?"

Zachary looked nervous again. Connor's discreet smile was wolfish. "Sure," Duncan said. "Ra'el plays. Gregor can, but he's not keen on it."

"Ceirdwyn is," Baden said. "And Sarge likes a good game."

"Sarge?" Connor questioned.

"Staff Sergeant Turner," Baden explained. "Due here any day now, so Ceirdwyn says. On my first tour, Sergeant Turner told me that if I ever woke up one day wondering why I wasn't dead, I should call. I thought it was just some weird counseling shit, you know, but then twenty-two years ago, I woke up on the flight line during an air show after a stunt plane went down, covered in blood, and wondering why I wasn't dead. So I called, and Sarge told me what was what. Gave me a place to live for the next three years and taught me a lot." He regarded his glass thoughtfully, tilting the clear liquid this way and that. "Saved my life."

Baden finished his drink as Duncan shared a glance of memory and understanding with Connor. Zachary was polishing his glasses again.

"Then this place opened," Baden said, "and Sarge brought me here."

"I'd like to meet him," Duncan said.

"Oh, hey, no," Baden said. "Sorry. Not him: her. Sarge's first name is Chelle."

* * *

><p>"I never imagined Chelle would spend twenty years in the Marines," Duncan said to Connor that night after dinner, as they stood on the gym rooftop, looking at the stars. "Or become a doctor." Baden had talked about that, too. "Did you?"<p>

Connor shrugged. "Don't know her."

"I guess I don't, either," Duncan admitted. He'd watched her grow up from afar, and he'd seen her the first week after she'd died, but that had been fifty years ago. There'd been that brief meeting on the road in Texas, but by the time Connor and Duncan had arrived at the school last spring, Chelle had already left. She'd brought Jero with her in October, stayed for three days, then left again.

"Explains her attitude," Connor observed. "And her mouth."

"She talked like that when she was fourteen," Duncan said wryly. He tilted his head to look up at the sky. The stars were beautiful tonight. The ash wasn't as bad in the winter, and light pollution was nearly gone, save for the glow of the town to the north. Even the Milky Way was almost visible. The winter night was silent except for the long rows of egg-beater style windmills on the roof, humming away in the frigid breeze.

A few moments later, a meteor traced a streak of brightness in the south. A little after that, Connor said, "Spaceship. Just below Orion's belt."

Duncan wondered if Methos was up there already, and how far he would go. "It's a big universe, MacLeod," Methos had said as they drank beer in the bar, that night before the Phinyx bombing. "And who better to explore it than us? Long trips are not a problem, we don't require medical attention, most of us past a hundred or so have good survival skills… It's a great adventure."

"Adventure?" Duncan had repeated dubiously, surprised to hear that from Methos. "Don't adventures leave you hungry, cold, and dripping wet?"

"Not if you do them right." He'd turned serious then, even a bit wistful. "I took Alexa to see the world. We had great times."

"Adventures," Duncan had prompted.

"Adventures," Methos had agreed. "She said she'd always wanted to see other worlds, too, not just this one." He'd sipped his beer and explained, "She was a Dr. Who fan. And Star Trek. Lots of sci-fi."

Duncan stared up at the spaceship that could take people to the stars. This science wasn't fiction anymore.

Below, a bell started to ring in the octagonal central courtyard outlined by the four halls of the former convent. Duncan thought it might be Isdra pulling the rope. By the time the seventh and final peal rang out, students and teachers had begun to emerge from the gym, the dining hall, and the academic hall, all crossing the courtyard to the dormitory. Even teens went to bed early when there were no lights to be had. They'd be up early, too, an hour before dawn. Sunlight was not to be wasted. Duncan had forgotten how right that daily rhythm felt. And how good it felt to make what you needed, instead of buying everything from stores.

"It's good to do real work again," Connor said, apparently thinking along the same lines. "And to teach it to the kids."

After the volcano, Ceirdwyn had shifted the curriculum from academic to practical. She'd stopped teaching Latin and literature in favor of how to make soap and candles and jam—practical skills. "Life skills," she said. Gregor was teaching medicine and horticulture instead of geography and history, and the flower beds in the meditation garden had been planted with vegetables and herbs. Connor was teaching applied chemistry in the blacksmith shop and in the pottery shed, and both he and Duncan taught hunting and tracking. And all four of them, along with Ra'el and Stef, gave lessons in how to fight.

The kids didn't mind. Most of them liked getting their hands dirty, and fighting was (so far) fun. They'd learned to cast stones with slings and shoot arrows with bows. And fencing, of course. Some of the older kids had swords, and nearly everyone walked about armed. That felt good, too.

"They learn quick," Duncan said then added thoughtfully, "It's different, teaching pre-immortals. I never thought I'd see fifteen together."

"Sixteen," Connor corrected.

"Right," Duncan agreed. He'd forgotten to count Zachary. "How do you like it here, living like a tribe, together with a common language?" Duncan asked, for Connor had spoken of that, almost two centuries ago.

But Connor shook his head. "It's good, but it isn't home."

True. Ceirdwyn was a gracious host, but Connor and Duncan both had other places they wanted to be, and other people they wanted to be with. "Want to leave?" Duncan asked.

Connor looked up at the stars then sighed. "Not just yet. Even with Gregor to help, Ceirdwyn's got her hands full here." He stretched, arms overhead and spine cracking, then grinned. "So do you, with Ra'el and Stef. Unless Baden starts to help."

"Or you?" Duncan ventured.

"No."

Duncan had heard that "no" many times before. There was no arguing with it. No arguing with Connor. Sara and John had died fifteen months ago, and Connor was still shut down, still healing. But he smiled more often, and he even laughed sometimes. Tonight, he'd talked about the future. Connor was starting to cope. Duncan knew the signs.

"I've got the watch from midnight to four," Connor said, stretching again and yawning this time. "Then fencing lessons at six and a batch of rocks to heat treat tomorrow. I'm off to bed."

"Me, too," Duncan agreed. He looked up at the stars once more before following Connor down.

* * *

><p>A few weeks later, Duncan went to ask Ceirdwyn about the spring planting. He found her in the kitchen garden, sitting on a bench in patch of sunshine, underneath the still-bare fruit trees. Next to her sat a girl with dark, wavy hair wearing a purple coat. She looked to be about nine years old, and she sat with her back straight, her ankles neatly crossed, and her hands quiet in her lap. She turned her head at his approach then stood, but kept her gaze on the ground. Duncan hadn't seen manners like that in an American child for nearly a hundred years.<p>

Ceirdwyn stood too. Her hair was loose today, rippling over her green and blue jacket. "Duncan, this is Terah. Chelle brought her in this morning."

"Good to hear Chelle's back," Duncan said. He wanted to talk to her. Then he looked at the girl, who was still being shy. "And it's good to see a new student," he said with approval. The girl looked up then, dark eyes large and searching in a dusky oval face. Terah was a pretty girl; she'd be a beautiful woman someday.

"She's already one of us," Ceirdwyn said, in a voice of quiet warning.

Duncan's welcoming smile faltered, and he looked at Terah anew. She would never be a woman, and she'd lost all chance of being a girl.

"She's been an immortal for five years," Ceirdwyn added.

Still a young one, both in body and mind. Still in need of help. Duncan extended his hand and smiled. "Pleased to meet you, Terah. I'm Duncan."

"Duncan," she repeated, laying her small hand in his, light and delicate as a kitten's footsteps. She smiled back, shyly at first, then with a touch of joy. That faded as she confided, "My daddy just died."

"I'm sorry to hear that," Duncan said gravely.

"Are you going to be my daddy now?"

"Um," Duncan began, shooting a glance at Ceirdwyn but finding no help. She looked taken aback, too.

"I promise I'll be good," Terah said earnestly. "My daddy taught me how." Then her gaze dropped again, but not to the ground. She was staring at his crotch, and the tiny pink tip of her tongue was sliding along her lower lip. Duncan pulled his hand away and stepped back, just as Ceirdwyn let out a quiet hiss.

"I could make you happy," Terah said, looking up at him with beautiful doe eyes. "I could be your little girl. Forever."

* * *

><p>That night, just before dinner, the adult immortals and Zachary met in conclave in the staff lounge. Ceirdwyn seated herself on the sofa facing the fireplace, with Gregor at her right hand. Duncan and Baden took the pair of chairs to her left, and Zachary went to his corner near the books. Connor locked the door.<p>

"Chelle?" Ceirdwyn prompted.

Chelle was standing in front of the cold fireplace, feet apart and hands behind her back, like a soldier at parade rest. She took one breath and began. "Four days ago near Dayton, an immortal using the name Marcus Dernhelm challenged me. Afterwards—"

Duncan translated silently: After she had chopped off his head.

"—I went to his house, a place way out in the woods, a mile off the road."

"How did you know where he lived?" Zachary asked.

She turned her head to look at him. "His address was in his wallet."

"You stole his wallet?" Zachary said in surprise.

"I took it," she corrected. "Makes the body harder to trace, makes it look like a robbery. And cash is always good. Plus, immortals can have pets. I won't leave them to starve." She faced front again. "At his house, I sensed another immortal … Terah." Chelle took another deep breath. "She'd grown up in the house with only Marcus. No school. Never even met any other kids."

"She does have beautiful manners," Baden observed.

"Yes," Ceirdwyn agreed dryly. "She has been exceedingly well-trained."

And not, Duncan knew, only in politeness.

"I thought, living out in the woods, that Marcus had been trying to keep her safe from other immortals," Chelle said. "She obviously couldn't live on her own, so I brought her here."

"And you didn't notice anything odd?" Duncan asked incredulously.

"The house seemed normal. She seemed … weirdly naïve, but she'd grown up alone. Plus, I had to tell her that her father was dead then haul her through the woods in the cold. She cried a lot; she didn't talk." Chelle shrugged. "And Terah never came on to me."

"She's been trained to pleasure men," Ceirdwyn said. At her nod, Chelle sat down in the wingback chair closest to the fireplace, and Ceirdwyn picked up the tale. "Marcus killed her on her ninth birthday, though Terah doesn't realize that. In her mind, he gave her a magic potion, she went to sleep, and when she woke up, he told she would never grow old, just like him. The magic had worked, and she could be her 'Daddy's little girl.' Forever."

"Bastard," Connor swore, while Gregor shoved himself upright then walked to the wall of windows, his back to the rest of the room.

"The sexual relationship started that night," Ceirdwyn said.

"Happy fucking birthday," Baden muttered.

Duncan swallowed hard, but the foul taste in his mouth didn't go away.

"That was five years ago," Ceirdywn said. "As far as Terah knows, her life was normal. She loved her daddy, and he loved her. He kept her safe; she kept him happy, and she wanted them to be together forever. She never saw anyone else. Except …" Ceirdwyn pressed her lips together but went on. "Sometimes, he would bring one of his friends over. To play with her."

"Marcus shared her?" Baden asked in surprise.

"Marcus sold her."

Gregor, pale and pacing near the window, cut loose with a string of invective in Polish. Duncan briefly closed his eyes.

"Tell me," Connor demanded of Chelle, "that Marcus suffered before you took his head."

She met his stony gaze with one of steel. "It wasn't quick."

Zachary came out from his corner to stand next to the empty chair. "So, what can we do to help?" he asked plaintively. "Terah's just a little girl."

"No," Duncan had to say. "She isn't. Terah is a child immortal."

"She never even had a childhood," Zachary shot back, standing up for the young and the helpless, as he usually did.

"That's true," Ceirdwyn agreed quietly. "And so this is even more tragic."

"What do you mean?" Zachary asked, but Connor was staring through his reflection in the window to the darkness outside, and Ceirdwyn was staring at the ashes in the hearth, and Duncan didn't want to mention Kenny or the toddler Deirdre or the infant that Connor had had to kill. Zachary asked again, his voice rising. "What do you mean?"

Ceirdwyn went to him before saying, "Even child immortals who had normal upbringings usually don't … age well."

"She's only nine," Zachary said.

"Fourteen," Connor corrected.

"That's still young," Zachary retorted. "Younger than some of our other students, and Terah's had a horrible life so far. So, we have to help her."

"Right," Baden agreed with a nod, and Chelle's eyes were hopeful.

Duncan knew the feeling. He wanted to help, too. Maybe Terah could learn. Maybe she wouldn't turn out like Kenny had.

"Terah deserves a chance," Gregor said.

"Yes," Ceirdwyn agreed, though her eyes were troubled. "She does."

* * *

><p>Later, Duncan spotted Chelle in the dining hall, eating a solitary dinner at a table near the kitchen. He made his way around noisy groups of students, nodded to the other teachers, smiled at Ra'el, then took the chair across from Chelle. "Rough trip, eh?"<p>

Chelle wrinkled her nose. "Not great. Besides whacking Marcus, the primmie I'd set out to find wasn't there anymore, and I had detour a bunch since roads were blocked and bridges were out. Ran into bandits a time or two."

"Sounds like the Highlands," Duncan observed.

"Scotland? Or Afghanistan?" she countered.

"Both," he agreed then used that opening to ask, "So, when did you join the Marines?"

"April 1995. Two weeks after Amanda left."

Duncan frowned in confusion. "Amanda told me you were with Ceirdwyn."

"Right." The word was clipped to shortness, and Chelle pushed her empty plate aside. "April Fool's Day, I wake up to find some cash and a note that says: 'Dearest Michelle, Sorry, must fly! Rent's paid up until the end of the month. Call Ceirdwyn; she can help. Love and kisses – Amanda.' But when I called Ceirdywn's number, it was disconnected."

Duncan thought back and put together the timeline. "Ceirdwyn's husband had just been murdered," he explained. "She must have moved."

Chelle acknowledged that with a slow nod. "Next I called your number. The woman who answered said you were dead."

"That was Anne," Duncan said. She'd told him she'd spent hours in his loft, listening to music, remembering …crying. She hadn't known—yet—that he could revive. But Chelle had. "You know that doesn't mean—"

"She said Kalas killed you," Chelle broke in.

And that was Richie, telling Anne things she didn't need to know.

"Amanda had talked about Kalas, too," Chelle said.

"I bet," Duncan muttered. Amanda had broken Kalas out of jail that year.

"I thought Kalas had taken your head," Chelle said, shrugging a bit as she picked up her mug of chicken broth. "Anyway, there I was: eighteen years old, no money, no friends, no skills or education, no job or place to live… So I joined the Marines. They gave me room and board, clothes, a paycheck. Plus they taught me how to use a rifle, some hand-to-hand, how to lay down fire and blow shit up. Good stuff to know."

She set down her mug and looked directly at him, her delicate features eternally soft with youth, her gray eyes once again like polished steel. "And they taught me that you never leave anyone behind."

Damn it, he hadn't left Michelle behind. He'd left her with Amanda, and then Amanda had (or so he'd thought) handed her over to Ceirdwyn. Duncan hadn't checked up on that, though he'd meant to. But he'd been busy with Kalas and the Watcher mess and the Dark Quickening mess, and then the Horsemen had blasted through, and after that he'd had to save the world. "Chelle—"

Jero and Isdra arrived at their table, nodding as they took the seats at the far end, then chatting merrily about a dissection they'd seen Gregor perform.

"I'm finished," Chelle said as she stood, and Duncan followed her outside.

In the kitchen garden, softly lit by moonlight and just beginning to stir with spring, she started walking, but he stepped around and blocked her path. "After my first death," he told her, "I went two and a half years before I even met another immortal. I had no idea what had happened to me."

Chelle looked up at him, but now her eyes were gentle. "That must have been hard."

She actually sounded sincere, instead of sarcastic. "Yeah," Duncan agreed, with a clearing of his throat. He'd been homeless, clanless, friendless, fatherless. Even now, he still didn't like to think about those days.

"Thank you," she said, and she briefly touched his forearm. "For watching over me when I was young, and for helping. It's important."

And now she sounded truly grateful. "You're welcome," Duncan said, and they smiled at each other before they started walking. As they reached the row of fruit trees, he asked the question he should have asked months ago: "So how did you meet Ceirdwyn?"

"In a New Washington hotel in 2015." She shrugged. "We met, we talked, we didn't kill each other."

Duncan had to grin at Chelle's summary of the immortal greeting ritual.

"It was a good meeting," Chelle continued. "We went back to her place in Chicago for a while, and we talked a lot about starting a school—this school." She waved her hand to encompass the buildings and the grounds. "There's a lot to learn about being an immortal, and good teachers are hard to find."

Duncan couldn't argue with that.

"Plus, the traditional one-on-one student/teacher thing doesn't always work out too well."

Duncan couldn't argue with that either.

They were nearly to the dormitory when Chelle asked, "Do you think Terah has a chance?"

"You've given her a chance," Duncan said. Even if only for a little while.

Chelle nodded, part relief and part determination. "I couldn't leave her behind."

* * *

><p>Spring came late that year, cold and wet. Summer came hard, hot and dry. Crops withered in the field, and in the orchard trees dropped unripe fruit on the ground. The vegetables in the greenhouses, irrigated with filtered water, did better, and Duncan taught the children to hunt rabbits and squirrels in the woods. Sometimes they returned triumphant with meat for the stewpot, as he and his cousin Robert had done centuries ago. Even so, Zachary made lists and calculated calories and frowned.<p>

And when he heard Gregor asking Connor if they could work together to search for the quickenings of more pre-immortals, Zachary frowned. "If you do find more students with this 'quickening radar', and you manage to bring them here, what will you feed them?" he asked bluntly. "And don't forget: sometimes their parents tag along."

"That's not so bad," Baden said, shuffling the cards for the weekly poker game. "Sally's mom is great."

"Yeah, but remember Toby's dad?" Chelle said.

Baden wrinkled his nose then gave a final flourishing shuffle before straightening the pile. Duncan cut the deck and slid it back to him.

"Zachary's right," Ceirdwyn said, as she sorted her chips by color. "We have enough people, and travel is getting worse. They'd be in danger just getting here. It's best they stay where they are."

Zachary nodded and muttered, "Good."

"But we could still look for them," Chelle pointed out. "Or for something." She turned to Connor. "Would you teach me how to work this Cerebro Q? I want to learn."

Her face was intent instead of smiling, and Duncan knew she'd picked the right approach. Connor preferred serious students to flirtatious ones.

Sure enough, while Baden dealt the cards, Connor gave her a look-over and then gave her a nod. "We'll try." He glanced at Baden and Gregor and warned them all: "Not many can." As he gathered his cards he added, "But don't call me Professor X."

"No," Chelle agreed, with impudent thoughtfulness. "Too much hair. And not enough brains." Connor simply looked at her measly pile of chips then at his four stacks. In answer, Chelle looked at Ceirdwyn's six. "Ceirdwyn is Storm," Chelle decided, "goddess of the elements. And you're Cyclops," she told Duncan. "Straight-laced but dangerous, and a leader of the team."

Not totally inaccurate, though Chelle seemed to think he was more straight-laced than he really was. As Duncan tried to remember what mutant power Cyclops had, Baden leaned over and confided, "She named me Forge, right after I started calling her Shadowcat." He grinned at Chelle as he said, "Since 'Sergeant Turner' was known for walking through anything and coming out unharmed."

Chelle wrinkled her nose at him then looked back and forth between the two non-poker players. "I'm not sure if Gregor or Zachary should be Hank McCoy," she mused.

"I'm definitely not Beast," Zachary declared. "But this place is definitely a school for mutants."

"Quite possibly true," Gregor said then opened his book. Zachary retreated to his corner chair.

Before Duncan picked up his cards, he asked, "Who's Connor?"

"Oh, right." Chelle gave Connor the same kind of look-over he had given her. He ignored her and studied his hand, poker face in full force. Chelle turned back to Duncan and smiled cheerily. "He's Wolverine."

* * *

><p>The next day, Ceirdwyn placed Terah in the primary group with Tomas and two others children. Stef taught them to read. Zachary taught them math. "That bastard Marcus never even taught Terah to add!" he exclaimed, shaking his head. "But she's bright. She's learning fast."<p>

She did, and that was good, because she had a lot to learn. Duncan had avoided her at first, as had all the men, but Chelle or Ceirdwyn coached Terah every evening in basic behavior, and the other students swiftly taught Terah how to share, how to tease, and how to play games.

The days grew longer and the weather warmer, and one summer afternoon at the creek, the students begin splashing each other and then pelting each other with mud. Terah was right in the midst of it, strands of dark hair plastered across her face, hands filthy, and shrieking with the rest of them in excitement and joy. Just like any child.

"She looks happy," Duncan said.

"She does," Chelle agreed, looking happy too. "She's having a good day. And the bad ones aren't as often." But then she bit her lip and admitted, "I wonder… She's fourteen, and she still likes pretending to be nine. But when she's thirty-four? Or a hundred and four?"

"My mother used to say, 'Don't borrow trouble from tomorrow'."

"We've got a lot of tomorrows," Chelle replied.

"Maybe, maybe not. But just like everybody else, we live one day at a time. And today's a good day."

"So, we should 'don't worry, be happy', huh?" Chelle said, quoting a song from seventy years ago.

"_Carpe diem_," Duncan agreed then grinned and invited: "Want to go play in the mud?" Chelle laughed, and they joined the kids in the mudhole. Afterward, everyone went swimming then set to work picking tiny blueberries from the bushes on the hill.

Duncan's pail was half full when Connor sprinted past, peeling off his shirt as he ran by. He tossed that aside into the dirt and kept running. His holster and sword belt came off next, though he set his weapons on the ground as he ran instead of tossing them.

"I think someone's in the creek," Jero said, stretching up on her toes to see better.

Duncan ran. He was nearing the shirt when Connor dove into the brown water, the deep swirling part where two streams converged. Just downstream, a dark head went under and disappeared. Duncan grimly picked up Connor's sword and stunner and kept going, his feet slipping a bit on muddy patches. Behind him, he heard a couple of students making their way down the hill.

Just as Duncan reached the creek, Connor came up with a spluttering Tomas. The boy held on as Connor angled for shore, skirting the rusty skeleton of a car and a tangle of logs. Duncan met them at the bank. He held onto a branch as he reached out and lifted a dripping Tomas by the collar. Duncan gave him a quick going over. The boy's arm, healed from its break, was bleeding from a deep scratch, but he seemed otherwise unharmed.

"Is he all right?" Terah asked as she and Jero arrived, panting a bit.

"He'll be fine," Duncan said. "Right, Tomas?"

Tomas nodded vigorously, spraying drops of water about.

Connor was still in the creek, and Duncan pushed the tree branch down for him. Connor grabbed it and clambered out the water and up the bank. He was muddy, wet, and streaked with blood, some of it from the boy, but most of it his. He was also grinning exuberantly. "You look happier than a wallowing pig," Duncan observed quietly. "And about as clean."

Connor laughed as he shook off water like a dog. But he sobered as he buckled on the weapons belt that Duncan handed over, and Connor's face was completely stern when he walked over to Tomas and asked, "What's the rule about the creek, Tomas?"

"Don't go in the creek alone," he said in a small voice, staring at the ground.

"It's 'Don't go near the creek alone'," Terah corrected, sounding exactly like a bossy older sister.

He looked up from under a thicket of dripping hair to protest, "I wasn't alone. Everybody was right here. And I wasn't going to go in. But when I threw my stick it went too far, and it was just a little close to the water and everyone was busy picking berries and the branch I was hanging onto broke, and then I was trying to swim and—"

And he would probably have drowned if Connor hadn't hauled him out.

"—then you pulled me out." Tomas was looking up at Connor with an adoring—and adorable—smile and with hero-worship in his eyes.

Connor still didn't smile. He reached into his back pocket to pull out a pale stave of holly, carefully peeled of its bark and carved painstakingly, if crudely, at the base with runes. "This stick?"

"You found it!" Tomas crowed in delight, but when he reached for it, Connor held it away.

"It's just a stick," Jero said in disgust.

"It is not," Tomas protested.

"It's a holly wand," Terah explained. "I have one, too. Tomas helped me make it."

"Like Harry Potter's wand?" Duncan asked. When he and Connor had first arrived at the school, the kids had been running about waving sticks at each other and yelling invocations in Latin. Fairly good Latin, too—Ceirdwyn had taught that class. But she hadn't taught Latin lately, and these days the kids went armed with stones and bows and steel.

"Not Harry Potter's wand," Tomas said patiently. "Rhianna's wand, like the one she used to enchant the wild boar and lead it to the sacred pool where it ate the hazel nuts and then it could talk and it helped her lead her tribe to victory in battle, only during the fight it was wounded and it died, and she carried its heart's blood back to the sacred pool and poured it in—"

Duncan wondered if Tomas was going to pause to breathe any time soon.

"—ever after the rocks around the pool were red and the water steamed, even on snowy days, and the hazel trees grew all around, and if you ate the nuts you would be wise too, save that the pool is hidden from the eyes of men, and so no one can ever get there, except for the maiden Rhianna who lives in the forest forever, along with the spirit of the boar." He looked up at Connor. "You know. The story you told last winter, when we built a fire and it snowed."

Connor cleared his throat. "Yes. I know that story."

Duncan had never heard it before.

"Please, will you tell it to me, too?" Terah asked. "Tomas already did, but—"

"—but I forgot some parts," Tomas interrupted, and Duncan watched with hidden amusement as she narrowed her eyes at him until he mouthed an apology. Terah had taken the rules of conversational etiquette to heart.

"Another time," Connor promised her then simply said, "Tomas?" and waited.

The boy sighed with contrite—and dejected—resignation. "I shouldn't have gone in the creek," he admitted, as if reciting a lesson. Apparently, they'd done this sort of drill before. "Anywhere near the creek," he added hastily before Terah could speak. "And not alone."

"And if you had been alone?"

He stared at the ground. "I might have drowned?"

"Yes," Connor replied bluntly. "You would have."

"And then I'd be dead," Tomas said then continued softly, his eyes unfocused, "Like those men Chelle and I saw in the Missippippi River on our trip here, all puffed up and black and their faces melted away."

Connor and Duncan had seen their own share of corpses on the trek east. And some since. Tomas's body wouldn't have decayed, of course; he would have revived. But he was only six years old.

"I'm sorry," Terah said.

"For what?" Duncan said in surprise.

"I should have been looking after Tomas better … and all the young ones," she said earnestly. "Ceirdwyn says they're our little brothers and sisters, and we always have to take care of them."

Duncan hadn't realized Terah had taken these rules to heart as well.

"Yes, we do," Connor agreed with an approving nod. "Right now, we need to pick berries."

As the five of them walked away from the creek, Connor said to Tomas, "I'll keep the wand for you … until the next winter campfire."

"Winter campfire! But—" Tomas looked up at Connor and Connor looked down at him, and then Tomas went silent and trudged up the hill, his head down, his shoes squelching with every step.

Duncan knew what it was to be quelled by a Connor-look. And no doubt Tomas was in for more Connor-discipline, too. Lucky boy. It might just keep him alive.

"It's all right, Tomas," Terah whispered, taking the boy's hand in her own. "You can share my wand."

* * *

><p>That night for dessert, everyone had a piece of blueberry pie, and Ceirdwyn said if they picked more berries tomorrow they could make jam.<p>

"My favorite," Zachary declared. "Especially on a winter morning. It's the taste of summer in snow."

"Then we'll save some for the first snowfall," Ceirdwyn promised him.

"I'll be first in line," he replied cheerfully.

But he wasn't. Six weeks later, at the end of September, Zachary went to the barn, rigged up a guillotine from the blade of an old plow, and cut off his own head.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Continued in "Something Wicked", in which a darkness comes<strong> _

_Thanks to KitElizaKing for reminding me about getting buried by volcanic eruption _


	24. Passion Play

**PASSION PLAY**

_Notice: Sexual content_

* * *

><p><em><strong>Fairhill Academy, Ohio River Valley, Autumn 2050<strong>_

* * *

><p>Isdra and Sally found Zachary's body when they went to feed the horses that morning. Connor heard the girls' shrieks and ran to see why. Most of the draining blood had been caught by the feed pan that Zachary had thoughtfully placed beneath himself, and there was a tarp as well, but his head had bounced quite a ways and left a spattered red trail.<p>

"Did someone kill him?" Isdra asked with horrified fascination, but the carefully folded glasses atop the suicide note said no.

"I can't live this way," Zachary had written. "I'm sorry. Goodbye."

The memorial service was held in the meditation garden at noon. The students were bewildered, some stricken to weeping, the immortals grimly silent for understanding why. The grave marker read "Zachary M. Barclay 28 Sep 2000 – 28 Sep 2050."

"Happy goddam birthday," Baden muttered, low enough so that only Connor heard.

Gregor ended the service with a reading from the Bible, and then people filed silently away. Terah stayed, huddled against the wall, her thin arms wrapped around her knees, her head bent, and her face hidden behind a curtain of dark hair. Chelle was by her side.

It was their weekly game night, but in the staff lounge after dinner, no one took out the poker cards. Ceirdwyn had set liquor and glasses on the sideboard. A special occasion.

"To Zachary," she said, raising her glass, and they drank in his memory. Ra'el drained hers in one go. Then people drifted about, finally finding places to be in the room. No one sat in the corner chair.

"I didn't realize…," Sally's mother began, breaking the silence, and when everyone looked at her she continued,. "Zachary once said he didn't think he would ever grow old. When I asked why, he said he had a health condition."

An eternally good health condition, Connor thought with bitter wryness.

"Do you know what it was?" Stef asked Gregor.

Gregor cleared his throat before saying, "I wasn't his physician."

Ceirdwyn offered, "Huntington's Disease starts showing symptoms at middle age. It's debilitating and incurable. I wouldn't want to live with it."

Connor appreciated the neatly phrased replies: completely true, utterly irrelevant, and eminently believable.

"I wouldn't either," Ra'el agreed.

"And there can be other reasons," Sally's mother put in. "Like Mr. and Mrs. Horst in town. They took the farewell pills last Sunday after church."

"Weren't all of their children lost when Yellowstone blew?" Stef asked.

"Yes, and they were getting old, past seventy." Sally's mother shook her head. "I only have the one daughter, but I can't imagine that. It's not right to outlive all your children."

"No," Stef agreed.

Connor tossed back what was left of his drink, avoided the eyes of the other immortals as he left the room, and went to bed.

* * *

><p>Later that night, Connor woke instantly when the sensation of an immortal crawled through him. His hand went to the handle of his sword, stored under the bed. He sat up, weapon in hand, and swung his feet to the floor. The door opened slowly, and Chelle slipped inside.<p>

"Duncan's room is down the hall," Connor told her, relaxing his grip but not letting go.

"I know where Duncan is." Without turning or taking her gaze from his, Chelle reached behind her and shut the door. Then she locked it.

"Chelle—"

"Are you going to tell me to leave?" she broke in.

He ought to. It would be responsible. It would be wise.

But in the dim light, her eyes held shadows of promise, and her black robe flowed over a body of supple quickness. He hadn't touched that body, but he'd gone running with her nearly every day these last six months, and they'd been sparring partners a few times. He'd noticed. And from their other practice sessions in the "CerebroQ", when they'd reached out into the world, Connor had caught a taste of her spirit: impatient, stubborn, occasionally flaring in rage or joy. He'd noticed that, too.

Her narrow feet were bare, and her unbound hair was a dark cloud of softness. Connor locked eyes with her then slowly shook his head.

"Then shut up," she ordered. She took two steps to the center of the room, nearly close enough to touch, close enough so that Connor could catch her scent.

Connor took in a slow and silent breath then slid his sword back under the bed and left it there. He stood so that they faced each other, unsmiling and intent. She raised her right hand, palm forward; he mirrored the motion until their fingertips touched. The connection turned into a careful exploration, palm to palm, fingers interlacing, a clasping of hands.

Her hand slid down to his wrist, then tightened there. Her fingers were surprisingly strong, and she knew exactly where the nerve junctions where. It wasn't pain, not yet, but it was pressure, and Connor put a stop to it by clamping down on her right hand with his left. He turned that into a sweeping caress, sliding his thumb slowly along the inside of her wrist, where he could feel her pulse, rapid and strong.

Chelle stepped forward, her robe swinging open a little as she moved, and he caught a glimpse of naked thigh. He could feel the heat of her body all along his, even through their clothes, and he could hear his own blood surging in his ears, and definitely moving lower down.

"Don't," she began, laying her free hand upon his, so that all four of their hands were tangled together, and they stood only a half-step apart.

Connor froze, uncertain of what it was she didn't want him to do, but certain that she got to make that call.

Chelle drew in a slow and careful breath, much like his earlier one, and tightened her grip again before telling him, "Don't be gentle with me."

At that his blood was leaping, each heartbeat distinct, cascading into exquisite painful throbbing in his guts and groin. Yet Connor stayed exactly where he was, unmoving. One of his mistresses had liked to play out domination scenes, and a few centuries back there'd been that redhead in London who enjoyed spanking. He'd sampled other variations in brothels over the years. But they'd all been mortals who didn't heal; with an immortal, the line between pleasure and pain didn't have to apply.

Not that he'd ever wanted to go that far, not for fun. Rebecca hadn't been interested, and Cassandra, understandably, had a deep need for gentleness. None of the other immortal women he'd been with had suggested it; that level of trust usually took time.

But Chelle was young and impatient. And she was standing right in front of him, waiting, wearing nothing but a thin, silk robe. "Never took you for a submissive," Connor said, wondering just how far and in which way Chelle wanted to go.

"Oh, I'm not," she replied. Her fingernails dug lightly into his skin, creating tiny crescents of pain. "I don't want to be gentle with you, either."

Connor let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding, a mix of a chuckle and a grunt above a growl of lust. But first, he forced himself to ask: "Limits?"

She shrugged. "We're immortal."

"I won't kill you," Connor warned.

"Uh, yeah," she said blankly then followed it with a rapid, "Right. Good. Not my thing."

Not his, either. But Chelle clearly hadn't thought this though, not all the way. "Limits?" Connor asked again.

"Right," she agreed slowly then came up with, "I'm not a masochist; I'm not into pain. Or humiliation. No punching, nothing broken. Just vigorous, even aggressive. You know?"

He did. She wanted it rough, but with a partner, not a master.

"I want … primal," Chelle said next. "No pretty words."

He knew about that, too. Not many people were so forthright about asking, especially not the first time. They liked that civilized layer, that safety and control. Untamed scared them.

It sure scared Cassandra. She liked it tame. She wanted him tamed, but he wasn't and he couldn't ever be, and when she'd finally realized that, she'd shuddered in revulsion and turned away. Two years, it had been.

Two years since Sara and John had died. Nearly ten since Rachel had gone. Colin would be fifty-four in two months time. Not old, certainly, and he was still in good health, but he wasn't young. And even if Colin lived another thirty or forty or even fifty years, eventually he would die.

Yet Connor would still go on, immortal, outliving his children and his wives. He knew more than he wanted to about that. But right now, Chelle was looking up at him, tensely eager, a little nervous, but not afraid. Her lips were slightly parted, the youthful softness of her face drawn sharper by urgent need. A need to lose herself, to release some of the frustration and rage and pain of immortality, a need to be overwhelmed by passion and sensation and not to think of anything at all.

He knew that need.

"Are you up for this?" Chelle asked, and for the first time since he'd met her, she sounded unsure.

"Oh, yeah," he reassured her. Definitely up.

She caught his meaning and responded with a quick, knowing grin. But first she asked: "Limits?"

Farther than hers, he was pretty damn sure. But he simply copied her earlier line: "Don't be gentle with me." She nodded, now seeming more nervous than eager, so Connor merely tightened his grip on her hands, finding her pressure points as she had found his, pressing almost to the point of pain. Then he relaxed and waited for her to make the next move.

She shivered a little, a rippling of skin, before she pulled her hands free and stepped back. Still watching him, with unhurried fingers she untied the sash to her robe. Its edges drifted apart, revealing the curve of a breast, a glimpse of shadowed navel, a slender thigh.

Connor watched with half-closed eyes, enjoying the show.

The tortuously slow strip tease continued as Chelle wrapped the sash around one hand. With a rough whisper of silk upon silk she pulled it free. But instead of dropping it, she draped the length of it across the nape of her neck and pulled the ends forward, so that it fell down over her breasts and the ends of the sash grazed her hands. The narrow strip glistened darkly against the whiteness of her neck.

She started to circle him, slowly, as though taking his measure during a duel, but Connor didn't turn to keep her in view. He stood still and let her come up behind him, close enough to feel the heat of her body and her breath upon his back through the thin fabric of his shirt. With one hand pressing in the small of his back, like a dance partner leading the way, she maneuvered him to face the wall.

Chelle started with a light touch, just her fingertips, tracing the contours of his back, his shoulders, his biceps, and then down his forearms to the cuffs of his shirt, not touching skin to skin. On the way back up, she used her nails, scratching lightly. Then again, harder, her hands caressing down this time, her nails dragging up. Then the same from his back to his waist, then along his sides, her hands sliding from nipples to ribs. At the front, her fingers found the buttons of his shirt, and she undid them, one by one by one, taking her time about it. The edges of the shirt parted, and Connor felt a shiver of cool air drift across the bare skin of his torso.

Chelle took hold of the collar and tugged his shirt down his back, baring his shoulders and his upper chest, but then she stopped, leaving his arms entangled. Connor immediately shook the shirt off the rest of the way; he'd let her have her way with him, but she couldn't tie him down.

"Limits," she murmured, sounding amused, and then she was behind him again, just barely touching, the tips of her breasts sudden islands of heat on his back. Her hands followed the same paths as before, but this time she touched naked skin, and as her tempo and the fierceness increased. Scratches deepened to gouges, and her fingers caressed and pinched and caressed again.

She used her knee to push his legs apart then pushed at his ankles with her foot to spread them even more. Her wicked knowing fingers went back to work, leaving Connor shuddering between waves of pleasure and pain.

He had to lean forward and brace his hands against the wall to keep his balance, and she leaned into him, her naked thigh hot between his legs, her breasts warm against his back, her breath moist and close upon his skin. He'd been spread-eagled and pushed up against a wall before, but when the cops did it, it never felt this damn good. Chelle's fingers went to his nipples, and Connor closed his eyes, either gritting his teeth or gasping.

Down his spine came tiny hot kisses, and her hands slid lower, down to his waist. Silk rustled as she sank to her knees, and then she started in on his legs. Over the cloth of his sweatpants at first, as she'd done with his shirt, until—finally—she took hold of his waistband, one hand by each of his hips. But there were no buttons to undo this time, and she simply pulled the pants straight down, so that Connor swore hoarsely as the cloth scraped over his already painfully hard cock. Even before he'd kicked the pants off and away, Chelle was already pushing his legs apart again, her hands demanding and insistent, down the outer thigh and up the inner, at the back of the knee, the top of the foot, switching quickly between stroking and scraping, between pressing and pinching, until his skin was quivering in unsure anticipation and his throat was dry.

Her lips planted more tiny hot kisses, now at the base of his spine, alternating with puffs of air and sharp nips, while her hands kneaded his buttocks, and every so often her hair would drift feather-light across his naked skin, all of it driving him crazy, until—when he spread his legs for her even more—her hands and her lips and her tongue moved farther down, and his world contracted to a red-hot pulsing need that throbbed with every heartbeat, and she still hadn't even touched him there.

"Damn it, woman," he muttered, because he couldn't take much more. But when Chelle only laughed in triumph, Connor swiftly turned around. She was already on her feet, facing him, her robe half-open over her shadowed nakedness, her eyes dark with desire. Connor held out his hands, and she interlaced her fingers in his, as they had done when first she came into his room, but this time he was the one to put the pressure on. Unsmiling and intent, he slowly bent her wrists backwards, forcing her to her knees.

From her place on the floor she looked up at him, tossing her head in defiance, shaking loose her hair. He let go of her wrists and wound his fingers through those dark strands, luxuriating in the softness between his fingers. Then he tightened his grip and twisted, controlling her head, reining her in.

She came to him, but slowly, resisting until she had to bend her head to the pain. But for all of that, her mouth was eager and her lips were hot, and her tongue lapped deeply at the roots of his desire, drawing him deeper, harder, faster, even while her arms wrapped around the back of his thighs and her fingernails were carving lightning-hot splinters of pain from his back and his buttocks and his balls, until Connor's world exploded in white scintillating fire, burning out pain and pleasure in slowly ebbing waves, leaving at the end a warm contented glow over every inch of skin.

When his breathing was almost back to normal, he carefully untwined his hands from her hair. Chelle pulled her head back and rested her cheek against his thigh before taking his hand in both of hers and pressing it to her lips. But instead of those tiny hot kisses and sharp nips, she traced delicate patterns with the tip of her tongue then blew softly, so that air chilled the skin so recently moist and warm. He opened his hand, sliding his fingers across the softness of her cheek and down the line of her jaw.

Like a cat tired of being petted, she turned her head and sank her teeth into the web of skin between his fingers and thumb. But this was no love bite, and he grunted slightly with the pain. Chelle still didn't let go, and so he twisted his free hand in her hair and yanked her head back. His left hand was throbbing where his skin was scraped and torn, and then it was burning as the lightning of healing cauterized the wound. Her eyes were half-closed, lazy and lidded, and from deep in her throat came a sated murmur of desire as her tongue flicked out and licked her lips clean of blood.

His blood.

Connor hauled Chelle to her feet by her hair, then swiftly grabbed the neck of her robe and pulled it halfway down her back, pinning her arms to her sides and stripping her bare at the same time. She'd done the same to him, but he didn't give her the chance to shake free, because what she'd done to him gave him a good idea of what she wanted him to do to her.

The silk sash flowed in two dark stripes over her pale skin, half covering one nipple but leaving the other breast bare. He left the sash where it was, for now.

Chelle was writhing, trying to bite, and he spun her sideways and pulled her back against him, his left forearm across her throat, his right leg hooked over hers, holding her in place, and also forcing her legs apart. Then he grabbed her hair again and twisted, using the strands like the rope on a winch to pull her head back, far enough so that she had to pant for air. He used his own teeth to nip at her ear lobe, her jaw, her chin, and she shuddered every time. He tasted her all along the length of her throat, from the softness under her chin to the hollow between her collar bones, drawing from her urgent, hungry moans. He licked a trail to her left breast, small and perfect, and he sucked its nipple to sweet tightness before biting down.

She whimpered in pain, then whimpered again when he drew the delicate skin up to tautness and let his teeth scrape against it when he let go. He kissed his way back to her throat, her blood pulsing beneath his tongue, and when he bit down into her neck and sucked, it flowed hot and salty sweet before the healing sparks closed the wound and tingled like a battery on his tongue.

"You son of a bitch," she swore then started cursing him monotonously.

He lifted his head and ordered, "Be quiet." Her blood was sticky on his lips.

"Make me," she challenged.

Fine. With his foot, he swept her feet out from under her and took her down with him to the floor. Her arms and feet were still entangled within her robe, and he simply pinned her down with his own weight before reaching for the ends of the sash she'd hung around her neck. He knotted it into a leash around her throat, loose enough for her to breathe, tight enough for him to control.

He sat back on his heels, straddling her legs, and pulled. She fought the leash to the point of gasping as Connor brought her back against him, but at least she didn't have breath enough to swear. Finally, she was kneeling, with her hands still caught up behind her and with only the bunched silk of her robe covering the luscious curve of her rear. Connor kept the tension on the leash with his left hand, while with his right hand he ruthlessly explored.

No gentle stroking of naked skin, no soft touches or deft arousal. This wasn't sharing a between lovers, this was plunder and domination, from his brutal pinching of her nipples to his shoving her knees apart then thrusting his fingers roughly into her cleft, slick and moist and hot, and then forcing her to lick them clean. She was his to toy with, his to control, and he squeezed and pinched and fondled until she was moaning again and leaning into the leash on her own. He slid two fingers inside her, his thumb on her clit. Then he waited, his own breath sounding harsh in his ears, each exhalation stirring her hair.

"Damn it, man," she begged, writhing against him, then cursing. But he didn't move until she finally said, "Please."

Slowly, he started, then even more slowly increased the rhythm and the roughness of his hand, matching those pulsations to the tightening and loosening of the noose around her throat. She moved with him, against him, and when her legs started shaking, he pressed into her hard and also squeezed, while his other hand jerked the leash tight and held it there. Chelle bucked then quivered all over and started uttering low and breathless moans, and he timed the motion of his fingers to her quivering inside.

As her breathing evened out, he let the sash unwind from his left hand, then took hold of her robe and pulled it away, freeing her arms and revealing all her lovely curves. He pushed her forward, onto her hands and knees, eager to take her from behind. He was ready—he'd had been ready since before he'd pulled her to the floor—but still he paused to ask, "Chelle?" because even with what they'd just been doing, this was different.

"Yes," she urged, pressing back against him, opening to him. "Now."

Connor closed his eyes, for now it was, only now and only here, and this was all that mattered, this was all there was—the feel of her against him and around him, the warmth and slide of skin on skin above the mingled sounds of their desire, with both of them caught up and carried by that ancient timeless rhythm, moving together, merging together, his hands gripping tight and her legs between his, and it was now and here and here and _now. _"Yes," she whispered fiercely, and "yes" he answered, again and again and again, and everything that mattered was in that one sweet word.

But eventually they fell silent, and the _now _turned into _then,_ and they were back in the world once more. The floor, Connor noticed, was uncomfortable and cold. "Bed?" he suggested.

"Desk?" she countered.

Bed, desk, chandelier… they all sounded good to him. She got to her feet and so did he, and then for the first time tonight, they were pressed together, front to front, with nothing in between, save for the thin ribbon of silk hanging down from her neck. He buried his face at the side of her neck, nuzzling through her hair and beneath the sash to use his lips on her skin at the same spot where before he'd used his teeth, but he should have remembered she didn't want tender. When her nails sliced long ribbons into his back, he bit her again, and he didn't let go until she slapped him, and then he slapped her in return.

And so it went between them, with tooth and nail and slicing pain that flooded into pleasure and back again, with hands that shoved and slapped then gripped each other tight and close with an urgency hard enough to bruise. Their skin, scraped raw and bleeding, tingled and burned from the healing sparks, and their bodies grew slick with sweat and blood. They mated with a passion made brutal in its fierceness, a brutality that fed a climax shattering in its agonizing release.

After, like a sailor who'd clung to a spar during the raging surf of a storm then kept on clinging, too exhausted to let go, in gently rocking waves, Connor couldn't move. His limbs lay heavy with sated desire, and his heart thudded against his ribs. Close beneath him, he could feel Chelle's heartbeat, too. Her arms and legs wrapped tight around him, holding him close, still inside her. Sparks danced with heated pinpricks along the bloody scratches she'd gouged down his backside, then his skin started to grow chill as sweat and blood dried. She sighed against his ear and muttered in exhausted wonderment, "Fuck."

"In a minute," Connor replied, because even though he was immortal, he didn't recuperate quite that fast.

That got a chuckle, a delightful vibration from her head to her toes, and Connor summoned the energy to carefully roll off her, keeping her close on the narrow bed, and pull the blanket over them. But before their breathing had settled back to normal, she got up from the bed. She left the sash where he had tied it, a leash around her neck, and pulled on her robe as she headed for the door.

Connor sat up. "Chelle—"

"You talk too much," she told him, glancing back over her shoulder, one hand clutching the edges of her robe together, then slipped from the room.

Alone in his bed, Connor laughed aloud. No one had ever said that to him before.

* * *

><p>The next morning at breakfast, Chelle ignored him. Connor had expected that. She showed up for their usual 5K run, but didn't talk then, either, which was also normal. A week later, she slipped into his room again. They didn't talk at all that time.<p>

The next day, in a quiet moment after the run, Connor asked, "How long were your marriages?" Chelle shook her head with a look halfway between amusement and annoyance; Connor wasn't sure if the expression was because of him or because of her husbands.

She answered, though. "Twelve years, five months, fifty-two days. You?"

"Forty-eight, two, and thirty-four. Years."

She shook her head again, but this time she looked incredulous. And maybe a bit envious. "Widowed?" she asked. "Or divorced?"

"Widowed." When she didn't volunteer her own information, he lifted an eyebrow.

She straightened from her stretch against the side of the building to answer, "Twice widowed, once divorced."

Connor was wondering if the divorce had come after the fifty-two days, the five months, or the twelve years, when she added without prompting, "No kids."

"Four kids," he answered in turn.

And that was the end of the conversation. The next time she came to him, in the office of the dojo, they didn't even bother to take off much of their clothes, but she kissed his cheek before she left.

* * *

><p>The days grew shorter. The trees began to lose their leaves. Chelle hadn't been to visit him again, but she was friendlier during the day, sitting at the same table at meals sometimes, asking him to spar, even engaging in conversation.<p>

Her change in behavior prompted discerning glances from Baden, who found a quiet moment to tell Connor, "Don't hurt her."

Connor wasn't sure if that was a warning or a plea. And it didn't even admit the possibility that she might hurt him. But Baden had been Chelle's student and was now her good friend, and he only meant well, so Connor answered with a reassuring nod.

Duncan noticed, too. "I think she's starting to like you." He added with a teasing grin: "Wolverine."

Connor mimed extending lethal claws, and didn't bother to explain that he and Chelle were in the "getting to know you better before this goes any farther" stage. Passion was straightforward, but tenderness was complicated.

And often frightening.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Continued in "Something Wicked", in which a darkness comes<strong> _


	25. Something Wicked

**Fairhill Academy, Ohio River Valley, 1 November 2050**

* * *

><p>The day after Halloween, Tomas didn't show up for lunch. "Probably too busy playing," Gregor said.<p>

But after the tables were cleared and Tomas still hadn't arrived, Ceirdwyn sighed and closed her eyes briefly in what Connor recognized as a parental plea for patience before she said, "The first time Tomas disappeared, it took half the staff and all the students five hours of searching before we found him."

"The attic door locked behind him, and he couldn't get out," Connor said, sharing what Tomas had told him of the adventure.

Ceirdwyn didn't seem interested in the explanation. "If he's gone 'exploring' again, we should start looking now. "

"Or," Chelle put in quietly, "we could find him with Cerebro‑Q." She caught Connor's eye, and he nodded.

Ceirdwyn was nodding too. "That you could."

"Easier with fewer people about," Connor said. The school was awash in quickenings.

"We could do a field trip," Gregor suggested. "We've been talking about hiking to Bald Eagle Crest for weeks, and the weather's good today. Far enough?"

"Fine," Connor agreed, but when Gregor announced the trip and all the students lined up, they found that Terah was missing, too. Ceirdwyn swore softly, and Connor saw concern replace exasperation in her eyes. Terah had been given more leeway in her movements than the pre-immortals, but they didn't leave her alone with the other students.

"Find her," Ceirdwyn ordered.

After everyone else had left the grounds, Connor and Chelle sat back to back but not quite touching in the center of the courtyard formed by the four halls. They carefully aligned their quickenings then reached out to find the youngsters. At first, Connor just drifted in the tremendous choir of babbling voices. He found squirrels frantically busy with nuts, a sleepy box turtle with sunshine warm on her shell, and in the woods outside the walls, a stag with antler-heavy head, catching the luscious scent of a doe.

Gradually, the din of animal life receded, and Connor focused on Terah's quickening. She and Tomas were likely together, and an immortal was stronger than a preimmortal. It didn't take long; the area wasn't that large. "They're to the south," he reported to Chelle, twisting to look at the southernmost building, which held the dining hall, the kitchen, the preparation rooms, an attic full of odds and ends, and a basement full of food.

"South," she agreed as they rose to their feet. "But not close. Probably off school grounds."

That meant off holy ground. And there were other dangers, too. Connor started off at a quick trot, with Chelle at his side. At the south gate, they paused to triangulate then Connor let Chelle lead the way. She was better at honing in on quickenings than he was.

But he was better at woodcraft. A half-mile from the gate he spotted tracks: a broken twig, a heel print, a thread on a thorn bush … a man. There were older tracks, too; the man had been walking here for at least four days. Connor signaled to Chelle, and she followed him between the scraggly pines to the man's camp. It wasn't much, just the remains of a campfire and a pile of brush over a hollow for sleeping, and another for some supplies. There was a good stack of firewood; the man knew how to use an axe. A tiny creek flowed nearby, nearly hidden under fallen leaves.

"A vagrant?" Chelle suggested.

Connor twitched back a pine bough and found a sack stamped with the logo of the school and stuffed with food. "A thief."

"But he's not getting in," Chelle pointed out. "So someone's bringing it out. Terah or Tomas? Or both?"

Probably Terah, but it didn't matter. The kids were missing, and a stranger was in their woods. Possibly a a dangerous stranger, possibly even deadly. That immortal they'd sensed didn't have to be Terah.

From the grim look on Chelle's face, she'd figured that out, too. "Keep watch and I'll search again."

"Won't need to," Connor said, turning to the sound of distant voices carried by the brisk wind: a man and a girl, heading their way.

"Stealth's out," Chelle observed, shifting into tactical mode

There was no sneaking up on immortals. "Deception isn't," Connor replied. "I'll take cover, and keep you covered."

She nodded. "And I'll say hi and be sweet and charming to get him to talk."

Connor looked around for options, and didn't find much. He needed to hurry, and he needed to stay close enough to Chelle that their quickenings would be indistinguishable. He crouched behind a pile of fallen branches that still had dead leaves attached. Their brown matched his clothes. It wasn't great cover, but Chelle would keep the stranger's attention on her. Connor took his stunner out and waited; Chelle sat on a large stump near the ashes of the fire, right out in the open.

Terah's voice, high and lilting, grew louder, and the stranger laughed aloud. Shoes crunched on fallen leaves. Then came abrupt silence.

Connor peered through the leaves and saw Terah in her bright purple coat standing next to a man in red plaid. There was no sign of Tomas. Connor couldn't see the man's face, but his dark blond hair was shoulder-length, and he looked to be about six feet tall. His hand was on Terah's shoulder, and the two of them were watching Chelle.

She stood up and waved. The man and Terah stopped five paces away from Chelle, and about eight from Connor, with their backs to him. Chelle commented mildly, "We missed you at lunch today, Terah. Did you eat with your friend?"

Terah nodded, and Chelle, smiling now, introduced herself to the stranger. "I'm Chelle. I work at the school where Terah lives."

"I'm David," he said, taking the hint to introduce himself. "I used to be a teacher, too, but I've been traveling lately." His manner was open, his voice sounded cheerful and friendly.

Connor didn't trust him.

"I met this charming young lady a few days ago," David continued, and Terah looked up at him with hopeful eyes, "and she said I could camp out here. And she brought me food."

"Why didn't you just come to the school?" Chelle asked.

David laughed, a great ringing peal of good humor, as if delighted by the silliness of the idea. "I like my head?" he asked rhetorically then added: "Would you walk into a nest of unknown immortals?"

"No," Chelle agreed.

Connor wouldn't, either.

"I wouldn't hang about in the woods with a young one, either," Chelle added.

"But Terah is not young." His hand tightened briefly on her shoulder, and she moved closer to him, brushing against his thigh.

Connor cursed silently, though he couldn't say he was surprised. Terah had been looking for a new "daddy" ever since she'd arrived.

"She's fifteen," Chelle said flatly.

"Old enough to marry," David said. "At least when I was born."

Not in Connor's time and clan. Rich people might marry young, and a girl "in trouble" would try, but mostly people waited until they could support a family before getting married. Still, they'd all definitely been interested in sex at fifteen.

"When were you born, Chelle?" David asked, the easy segue not hiding his keen interest.

Chelle didn't answer that, but Terah did: "She's not even a hundred."

"Terah," Chelle began, now focusing on the girl, "you should have told us about David."

"So you could tell me no?" Terah said. "Like you always do? I'm not a little girl, and all of you treat me like one, except for Zachary." She was looking up at David again. "And now David."

"I see," Chelle said slowly. "And are you two planning marriage?"

"No," David answered promptly.

"David promised to take care of me," Terah said.

Connor grimaced at her naïveté. Eventually, David would get bored, then either sell her to a pedophile for the money or take her head for the quickening. Maybe both.

"That's very generous of you," Chelle told David.

"Terah's a very special girl."

"Yes, she is," Chelle agreed, but her smile didn't hide her sharpness. "Terah," Chelle asked next, seemingly casual, "have you seen Tomas since breakfast?"

"No."

That was a lie. Connor had heard enough of them to know. Was Tomas still in the woods or back on school grounds? Had Terah left him somewhere safe, or was he dead?

"Who's Tomas?" David asked, and the keen interest was back in his voice.

Connor relaxed, a little. David wouldn't have asked if he'd already taken Tomas's head.

"He's my friend," Terah said.

"And is Chelle your friend?" he asked.

Terah said nothing.

"Terah," Chelle said, reaching out a hand to the girl. "I am your friend. You know—"

"Did you kill my daddy?" Terah demanded.

Chelle froze. Her hand slowly dropped back to her side. "He wasn't your father."

"He was my daddy, and he loved me," Terah insisted. "David says that you probably killed him," Terah went on. "That you cut off my daddy's head."

"Terah." Chelle's voice was steady, calming, even as her gaze flickered between the man and the girl. "I didn't…"

Don't, Connor thought fiercely. Don't tell Terah the truth. Not now.

"I didn't know," Chelle continued, "who he was. I didn't know about you."

"So it is true," Terah said with venomous disgust. "You did kill him."

"He tried to kill me," Chelle explained.

"You killed him, and you never told me," Terah protested, working herself up from petulant whine to self-righteous rage. "You killed him, and you took me away from my house and my dolls, and you brought me here, to this school where kids are stupid and the classes are boring and the food is awful, and you've lied to me, all this time. All of you lied! Even Zachary. I hate you!" she spat out. "And we are _not_ friends."

Connor shook his head with a silent "I told you so" sigh.

"So, Terah," David was saying, "Chelle killed your father."

"In self-defense!" Chelle said hotly. "You know it's what we—"

"—what we do," David broke in. "Exactly." He drew his sword, a two-handed behemoth of a weapon.

Chelle immediately backed away and pulled hers, a much lighter saber. Damn! Connor couldn't interfere, but he sure as hell didn't want to watch Chelle die.

"Would you like to see a quickening, Terah?" David asked, as casually as if asking her if she wanted to see a movie or go to the zoo. He was already stalking Chelle, circling to the right and unwittingly coming closer to Connor.

"Yes," Terah said then climbed up and sat on a fallen log, swinging her feet back and forth. "I would. Kill her."

David grinned as he glanced over at her. "That's my girl!" Then he looked back at Chelle and said thoughtfully, "Although…" Abruptly, he pulled a gun from his pocket and shot Chelle through the heart. Terah shrieked and Connor jerked, both of them caught by surprise. Chelle had been knocked onto her back, her legs slightly crooked, her sword next to her outstretched hand. Blood was oozing from her mouth and nose, and behind her, spatters of blood showed bright red on brown leaves.

Connor wondered how many heads David had taken this way. Perhaps he was the shooter who'd been breaking the rules.

David bowed to Terah with an extravagant sweep of his hand. "You should be the one to avenge your father."

Terah hopped down from the log, her lower lip caught between small white teeth, staring at Chelle's body. "You mean…"

"Kill her," David said. "It's your right. It's your duty. Your daddy taught you that."

"Yes," Terah said, taking one step forward, then another, as delicate and cautious as a hunting cat. She looked back over her shoulder to ask, "How do I…?"

"Use her sword."

Connor had heard enough from the smarmy bastard and the ungrateful little bitch. He stood and shot David in the back of the neck from only ten feet away, with the stunner set on high. David spasmed, arms and legs flung wide, dropping his sword. Terah turned, her eyes wide in confusion, and Connor shot her, too, but in the small of the back through several layers of clothes. She crumpled, almost gracefully, dropping unconscious to the ground. David had gone down in a twitching, drooling heap and now was lying very still.

Connor urgently wanted to find Tomas, but he couldn't leave Chelle, and he couldn't simply behead the other two as they lay helpless on the ground, sensible though that might be. He walked over to David for a better look. The man seemed to be in his mid twenties, about Connor's height but a bit more in weight. He'd be fairly attractive, when he wasn't slack-jawed and drooling and dead. Connor checked for dental work, then for childhood scars. In the process, he relieved David of the gun, two knives, a wallet, and a few other odds and ends. Then he used David's belt to lash his ankle to his wrist. Damned uncomfortable, and Connor would hear if David moved. The sword stayed where it was. David was going to need it very soon.

Next, Connor checked Terah for weapons, but found only a bag of dried fruit in one pocket and a small glass pumpkin with a broken green leaf in the other. He picked her up, an easy burden, and placed her in a sitting position against the trunk of a narrow pine. He used the purple sash from her coat to tie her hands together then used his belt to tie the sash to the tree, looping it over a branch to keep her hands above her head. Not tight, not painful, but enough to keep her still. He needed answers about Tomas, and he wasn't in the mood for chasing her if she ran. Her head rolled limply to one side, her dark hair covering her cheek and her right eye.

Connor sat on the log that Terah had recently vacated, waiting for someone to revive. He passed the time by imagining different ways for David to die. The scents of excrement and urine wafted through the brisk fall air.

Finally, Chelle rolled over on her side and began hacking up blood and phlegm. "Damn," she swore once she'd caught her breath. When she sat up, she saw Terah, still unconscious and neatly tied to the tree. Chelle's mouth twisted, but she didn't protest. She looked next at David, still sprawled ingloriously on the ground, and stated, "He needs to die."

"Yes," Connor agreed.

Chelle looked back to Connor, her eyes narrowing as she searched his face. "I just want him dead." Her smile was thin. "You want to kill him."

Connor nodded. He hadn't taken a head in years, and this would be one righteous kill. But he shouldn't be greedy. "If you want to finish your fight—"

"Finish?" she broke in. "It never even started." She plucked at her bloody shirt where the bullet had gone in. "Bastard," she muttered, giving David a dirty look, but that soon morphed into a tactical evaluation and ended with a shake of the head. "I don't like my odds. He's bigger, stronger, older…"

"Not as old as he makes out. His scars are too clean."

She shrugged. "Still bad odds."

Connor approved of her realism. Bravado got you killed.

Chelle said, "If you really want him—"

"I do."

"—then he's yours."

"Good." Connor went back to thinking about sword moves, rehearsing instead of merely imaging. A slash to the tendon, just behind the knee. The stab to the heart, dark blood spurting. The twist of the blade, grating on bone and spreading the rib cage, ripping into the lung, pink foam erupting from mouth and nose.…

"You're smiling," Chelle said. She sounded sad.

But when Connor looked at her, she'd gotten to her feet and was plucking at her shirt again. "Shit," she muttered.

Connor politely averted his eyes. Dying was a messy business. "Creek?" Connor suggested, and Chelle headed for the water.

Soon after, Terah began to stir. Connor checked on David, who was still out cold, then looked over to the girl. She was alert, her eyes darting from David to Connor and all around, but when she saw Connor watching, she instantly became a bewildered little girl. "Please," she begged. "Please let me go."

Connor went back and squatted near her, but far enough away so she couldn't kick him, and asked, "Where's Tomas?"

She shook her head, eyes wide and face earnest, all innocent confusion. "I don't know."

Connor had zero patience with lies, and even less with liars. He shot her, just the barest grazing on her thigh, with the stunner set to low. Her scream was theatrical in its exuberance, and full of "ow, ow, ows." Connor gave her another chance. "Where's Tomas, Terah?"

She was glaring at him now. "I won't tell you, and you can't make me."

"No?" Connor questioned, aiming the gun at her bare hand. She flinched but didn't answer, so Connor shot her again. This time, her scream wasn't faked.

A stunner through clothes hurt; a stunner on bare skin burned. It left no mark, though, and didn't damage tissue or skin. Originally developed for therapy on damaged limbs, the nerve stimulator had been, like so many other things through the ages, adapted for other uses. At high power, it could disable a limb. At close range and maximum power (highly illegal), with enough duration and in a vulnerable spot (say, the back of the neck or the heart), it could even kill. Connor glanced at David, but the man was still trussed tight, so he turned back to the girl to ask: "Where … is … Tomas?"

She'd gone stubborn and defiant, lips pressed tight and eyes narrowed with hate, but when he raised the gun she squirmed and twisted, pulling at the bonds around her wrists and trying frantically to get away. Connor was deciding between targeting the fingers or the inside of the wrist when Chelle came charging up the hill, sword in hand.

"What the hell is happening?" she demanded.

"I'm getting answers."

"Really?" Chelle said, her voice dripping disbelief. She was dripping too, still damp from the creek, with bare legs, untied shoes, and her coat wrapped hastily around her waist. Terah started crying with theatrical tears and ostentatious sobs, until Chelle told her bluntly, "Shut it. I'm not buying." Chelle asked Connor, "What's she told you so far?"

Connor shrugged. They weren't done yet.

Chelle turned her back to Terah and said quietly, "We don't need to do this, Connor. I can 'search' for Tomas while you keep guard." Then she added, "Or you can search."

Instead of stun-gunning a bound and helpless girl who looked to be nine years old. Chelle didn't say that, but she didn't have to. Connor knew it, and he didn't much care. He wasn't hurting Terah, not permanently, and Tomas was out there, somewhere, maybe hurt, probably scared, and Terah was lying about what she knew. She had no honor at all. "After David shot you, Terah was going to take your head," he informed Chelle. "With your own sword."

"I see," Chelle said slowly, turning to look at the slim young girl whose pretty face was twisted into a scowl. "Do you really want to kill me, Terah?"

"I have to avenge my father," Terah explained. "And anyway, immortals don't need a reason to kill."

"Yes, they do," Chelle corrected.

True. Though sometimes, Connor had to admit, the reasons were pretty flimsy.

"David said—"

"David's wrong," Chelle told her.

Terah went silent, her brow furrowed in confusion. Connor tamped down sudden sick dread and asked, "Did you take Tomas's head, Terah?"

"What?" She seemed honestly shocked. "No!"

"Did David?"

"No! He's never even met—" She shook her head impatiently. "Tomas is my friend."

Connor was very glad to hear that. "He's my friend, too," he reminded her. "It's getting late, and it's going to be dark in a few hours, and cold. We need to bring him home. Where is he?"

Terah just looked at him, mutely infuriating, and Connor was reaching for the stunner again when Chelle said, "Connor, give me a minute."

Connor impatiently stood guard while Chelle closed her eyes and searched. As soon as she blinked, Connor demanded, "Well?"

"Tomas is in the tree fort," she reported.

That wasn't that far away, but she didn't sound happy. Her coat rustled as she knelt on the ground to look the girl in the eye and ask: "Terah, why?"

"He's my friend," Terah repeated. "Mine, not yours," she said to Connor. "And now Tomas and I will be friends forever, and for always."

Connor had taught Tomas that phrase, and he in turn had shared it with Terah. But some things weren't meant to be forever. "God, no," Connor breathed. Please no.

But Chelle looked up at him, her eyes stricken, her mouth a thin tight line, while Terah said, "We'll be like the Lost Boys from Never Land. We'll never grow up, and we'll always be friends. He'll never leave me."

Because she'd killed him. Like her "daddy" had killed her. And now Tomas would be seven years old for the rest of his life. Connor sank to the ground, hammered to his knees by helpless despair, that earlier dread spreading like poison and lying bitter on his tongue. It hurt to breathe. No. No. Goddamn it, no!

But there was nothing he could do.

"Not like Sandra left," Terah was saying. "Not like Zachary. Never. Never. Never." She was rocking back and forth, almost crooning the word. "And Mikal can join us. And Sally. But not Isdra. I hate Isdra. Not Jero, either. She's snobby. Maybe Hiro. He's nice."

Chelle met Connor's eyes then shook her head.

And so the judge and jury had again decided. All they needed now was the executioner. "I'll do it," Connor offered as they got to their feet.

"No," Chelle said firmly. "This is on me."

"What is?" Terah asked, looking up at them from the ground. "Can I go now? Please? You were right; Tomas is in the tree fort. We were there at lunchtime. So can I go?"

"I'm sorry, Terah," Chelle said.

"You should be," Terah said. "So untie me!"

But Connor didn't look at her, and Chelle only murmured, "If it were done when 'tis done…"

Connor silently finished the line from the Scottish play: Then 'twere well it were done quickly.

"Let me go!" Terah was yelling now, tugging on her bonds, still more angry than frightened. "Let me go, let me go, let me go!"

He lifted the stunner and shot Terah in the heart.

The girl slumped, her head falling forward on her chest, her dark hair falling in a curtain across her dark eyes. Connor moved back as Chelle stepped forward, lifting her blade, then bringing it down. Terah's neckbones splintered, the skin of her throat parted with a bloody, tearing whisper, and her head bounced soddenly upon the ground.

Chelle was on her knees already, her head bowed, her face streaked with tears. Connor couldn't help her, either. He retreated up the hill, away from the lightning about to come.

But he didn't get to watch Chelle take the quickening, because David was alive again, screaming frantic curses as he got loose of his belt then picked up his sword.

Good. This, Connor could do. He drew his katana and waited, and David came at him with a mighty two-handed swing and a shriek of pure rage. Connor evaded the attack easily, for David was still unsteady on his feet and not thinking very well. But Connor didn't go after the easy kill, not yet. He wanted this fight. He wanted to make David pay. They faced each other, circling, ignoring the lighting only ten paces away.

"You sick, cold-blooded bastards," David snarled. "Is that how you get off? Tying up a little girl so you can stun her and then take her head?"

"You shot Chelle," Connor pointed out, circling left, getting a feel for David's gait, watching the way he held his sword.

"Yes, so Terah could avenge her father," David said. "She doesn't have a chance in a fight."

That almost made sense, in a twisted sort of way. Connor didn't care. David was a jerk and a pervert, and Connor wanted him dead.

On the other side of the clearing, a final splinter of lightning ripped through a pine tree and set it ablaze like a torch. Chelle was a dark silhouette in front of the golden flames, her head hanging and her hands by her sides, standing over the small bundle wrapped in a purple coat.

David cursed again, calling Chelle foul names. Then he turned to Connor. "Why did you two kill Terah?" he asked, sounding close to tears. "She was just a girl."

And that was exactly why she had to die: she would always be a girl. "You said it," Connor reminded him. "She wasn't young." Time to take control of the conversation. "Is that how you get off?" Connor asked. "Young ones?"

"What? No!"

He sounded just as shocked as Terah had earlier. Maybe he wasn't a pervert after all. He still needed to die.

"Who the hell are you, anyway?" David demanded.

Connor had been answering that question for hundreds of years. "I'm Connor MacLeod, of the Clan MacLeod."

David shrugged. "Well, 'Connor MacLeod' of the whatever, beheader and torturer of little girls, I want your head ."

Connor smiled, his sword a sweet and familiar whisper of vicious steel in his hand. "And I want yours." Then he attacked, giving no quarter, finding no contest. David knew the basics plus a few tricks, but his sword was too big for him ,and thus too heavy, and his body was still quivering from the stun.

But Connor stepped back to give the boy some breathing room, to let him think he had a chance. As they circled, catching their breath, Connor twirled his katana from hand to hand, a show of expert control. David's eyes tracked every move, and when he looked up Connor saw the nervous swallow.

Connor smiled.

He was rewarded by the delicious sight of the flash of fear in his opponent's eyes. Good. Connor simply waited for the next attack, clumsily inevitable, and then Connor took his enemy down. A quick cut across the tendons to drive David to one knee. A slashing downward stroke from bicep to elbow, slicing through cloth and skin and muscle to leave a hunk of bloody flesh steaming on the leaves. David shrieked in horrified pain, and his eyes were full of fear now. The shrill screams soon shriveled to hoarseness, and then to wordless, gibbering moans.

Connor could have taken David apart bit by quivering but, but Tomas needed to be found, and besides, the noise was annoying. Connor grabbed a handful of hair and lifted, holding the head still. From across the dead campfire, Chelle was watching, her face as pale and lifeless as the moon.

"Murderer," David gasped, just before Connor swung his sword, and Connor didn't care.

He stood there, with a bloody sword in one hand and a severed head dangling by the hair in the other, with a body at his feet. Spilled blood flowed warm down Connor's thighs, more blood pounded fiercely in his veins. And it was good.

The world was shimmering blue and white and black, splintered into fire and blood, and Connor closed his eyes and let the quickening take him, stripping him down to the bone. For this was no gentle communing with birds and ants or rocks and trees. This was power, raw and primal, the power of an Immortal screaming in rage and pain as Connor devoured his soul. Every nerve hummed and every fiber burned, as if his skin had been scoured away, shaking him open and leaving him empty, while the quickening ate him alive.

The last bolt of lightning left him gasping for air and trembling. His fingers, still wrapped through dirty-blond hair, were cold and stiff, and the blood on the front of his pants had dried. The scents of scorched meat and burned hair crawled down his nose and burrowed into his tongue like limpets on a ship's hull. Connor dropped the head and stumbled away from the body, wincing with every crackle of leaves, every movement of air, every touch of cloth. He was still too open, too raw, and each sensation was exquisite, quivering pain. The sun was too bright. The sky was too blue. His own pulse sounded as rapid and loud as a jackhammer, and the rushing of the blood through his veins seemed like the roar of the ocean tide. His sword felt as heavy as a blacksmith hammer, and the weight of it dragged him down to the forest floor.

A mushroom was growing, creamy brown and spotted with red, right in front of his nose. An acorn lay atop a broken twig, and he marveled at the tiny hole bored into the acorn's side and at the precision of the knurling on its cap. He pushed aside dead leaves and spread his hands directly on the cool damp earth, spreading his fingers, getting grounded once again. He reached out and in, finding the tendrils of the oak's root system, following them to the core of the tree then spreading out to the branches, and resting there among the sky.

After a time, he pulled back into his own body, stretched fingers and toes, then sat up and looked around. Chelle had gotten dressed and carried Terah—body and head—over to the fire circle and arranged both neatly. The girl might have been sleeping.

David still lay where he had fallen, a crumpled heap. The head had rolled a bit down the hill, gathering leaves and dirt on the way. Connor picked up his sword, sticky with blood and festooned with a few strands of blondish hair, like tinsel on a Christmas tree. He wiped the blade with handful of leaves and then with the cloth from his back pocket. He got to his feet, a bit shaky, and nodded to Chelle, who was watching him from a safe distance. After a quickening, immortals could be… volatile. "Hey," he greeted her.

"Hey," she replied. She nodded at David's body and suggested, "Move that?" She took the feet and he took the arms, and they lugged David into the fire circle. Connor went back and fetched the head.

Chelle had started laying a fire, a classic log-cabin style with tinder neatly arranged around the kindling. That pyramid shape helped to funnel the heat. A big one would help the bodies burn, but it would take time to build. And even if they did... "Burning bodies takes a while," he warned.

"I know." She set the last stick on the structure then sat back on her heels and sighed. "But digging's no good with all these trees, and we don't have a shovel anyway."

If it had been only David, Connor would have left him for the scavengers. But it wasn't only David.

Chelle started the fire with a match and got it going. They stood together in silence and watched the golden flames climb. "He's still at the tree fort," Chelle said finally. "Sleeping, I think. I can go—"

"I'll go," Connor broke in.

"Connor—"

"This is on me," he said, and Chelle didn't argue, just hugged him fiercely and kissed his cheek before he left. As Connor headed into the woods, wood smoke rose among the trees, and then came the acrid scent of burning hair.

By the time he reached the tree fort, the sun had dropped to the top branches of the trees. Darkness would fall in a few hours. He stopped, just out of range, then gritted his teeth and walked on. Nine paces later, a head with curly brown hair poked up over the tree fort wall and the sensation of another immortal crawled up Connor's spine.

Damn, damn, damn, damn.

God damn it all.

"Hey, Connor!" Tomas called, waving a hand.

Connor made himself smile. "Hey, scamp." He climbed up the ladder made of sticks lashed to the tree then clambered onto the small platform.

Tomas was sitting in the corner, blinking hard. "I feel funny," he said. "And there's a weird noise."

"Close your eyes," Connor suggested, and after a moment, the quickening sense faded for both of them.

But now Tomas was looking at the sun in alarm. "Is it afternoon?"

"Yes."

"But … Terah said we'd be back in time for lunch. When I drank the potion, she said I'd sleep for a while, but she promised she'd wake me up. Honest!"

"It's all right, Tomas."

"No, it isn't. Ceirdwyn told me not to make people look for me again." He hunched down, his arms wrapped about his knees, and said in a small voice, "She is going to be so mad at me."

"She's a little worried," Connor agreed. "But she's not mad. She knows I'm looking for you."

"Oh." Tomas grinned in happy relief. "Great! What about Terah? Is she all right? Did you find her?"

"We found her," Connor answered then added, "She's with Chelle."

"And I'm with you," Tomas said with satisfaction.

He swallowed hard, forced a smile, and managed to say, "Yeah. You're with me."

"Your clothes are dirty," Tomas noticed.

Connor glanced down at the blood on his trousers, dried to brown. "I slipped in the mud."

"We jumped over two creeks on the way here, and I didn't get wet at all," the boy said proudly.

"Good for you!" Connor looked about the makeshift platform with its crooked walls, a child's fragile fortress against the world. The wind was getting colder. They couldn't stay here. "What do you say, kiddo? Ready to go?"

"Sure!" Tomas agreed. "I'm hungry. Like always, right?"

"Right," Connor agreed. Like always. "I'll go down first," Connor said, and he made his way down the ladder, pushing off and jumping away from the last few rungs. Tomas followed, first his feet sticking out from the platform, then his skinny backside appeared, and then he started climbing down.

When Tomas was halfway down the ladder, Connor shot him in the back. He caught the light body as it fell. The short legs dangled awkwardly over his arm; the brown eyes were closed. Connor carried him to a fallen tree and propped him up there. "I am so sorry, Tomas," Connor told him, talking to the unconscious boy. "I wanted…"

Ah, damn.

He couldn't do this.

He had to do this. And he had to do it quickly, or he couldn't do it at all. He kissed Tomas on the forehead and whispered ancient Gaelic words of farewell. Then he stood and drew his sword, holding the head up, the brown curls soft about his left hand. "Forgive me," he whispered, and then he swung his blade.

Before the lightning came Connor dropped to his knees, cradling Tomas's head in his arms. "You'll be with me," he promised. "Forever."

And for always.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Continued in "Mortal Sins" - in which Connor and Chelle confront each other, and Methos is unfortunately detained<strong>_


	26. Mortal Sins

**Fairhill Academy, Ohio River Valley, 1 November 2050**

* * *

><p>Baden and Stef showed up before sunset, drawn by the smoke and the scent of roasting flesh on the wind. "Oh, dear God, no," Stef said, seeing the triple funeral pyre. "What happened?"<p>

"Who is that?" Baden wanted to know at the same time.

"A wanderer," Chelle said. "He'd been camping out here for a while. Terah was bringing him food."

"And he killed her? And Tomas?" Baden asked in outrage.

"Yes," Chelle replied, and Connor didn't contradict the lie. The truth was unspeakable in front of a mortal, even one like Stef who'd been trained as a Guardian by Evann and Matthew at the Themis Institute and been working for Ceirdwyn this last year.

"Who killed him?" Stef asked.

"I did," Connor answered.

"He pulled a gun on me," Chelle explained immediately. "Connor got it away from him, but-" She took a deep breath. "And it was too late for the kids."

Connor stayed silent once more. All of that was true … in a way.

"I see," Stef said, taking note of the blood on his clothes then looking at their hands and faces. "I'll have to tell Maria when I go to town. The police need to know."

"I don't want any trouble," Connor said.

Stef looked at the blackened bodies. "Two murdered children, one dead bandit, Chelle as a witness, and Ceirdwyn and Ra'el and I will all vouch for the two of you… It should be all right," she said. "Though there will be questions. Especially since you burned the bodies."

Connor dealt with the implicit question in that last sentence by ignoring it; he knew the cops wouldn't let it go so easy. But he'd dealt with questions from cops before. And these days, they had their hands full, so the elimination of yet another bad guy was unlikely to get much of an investigation. The cops would more likely be glad of the help.

"Did you get a name?" Stef asked.

"Just David," Chelle said, but Connor pulled out David's wallet and handed it over, and Stef flipped through it, stopping at a picture ID of the dead man.

"Huh," Baden said in surprise.

"You know him?" Stef asked.

He looked closer then shook his head. "No. Just looks like someone I knew, back in school." But when Stef turned away, Baden mouthed the name "Preston" with his eyebrows raised, and his hands mimed holding a sword.

Connor nodded, and Baden spat on the ground. Connor went back to staring into the leaping flames of gold. Long spears of sunlight sliced between the trees as the sun lowered in the sky.

Chelle and the others left at sunset, but Duncan came. Connor told him what had really happened, and Duncan took his hand in a steadfast grip, his eyes dark with knowing pain. "I am so sorry, Connor," he said, using the Gaelic, and he stayed to keep vigil, standing by Connor's side.

Soon the moon rose, nearly full, just a little sliced off one side. Its bloody orange hue faded to white as it lifted above the trees. The dead orb crept, achingly slow, across the sky, and the flames gave up their dancing as the air grew cold and the fire slowly died. The coals went gray and then to black, the bodies reduced to ash and bones and skulls. Darkness lay its shroud upon the land.

The moon slid downward in the western sky, and in the east, the bloody sun appeared. Another day begun. All Souls' Day. The last of the three days of the dead.

The day to pray for the souls of the damned.

The low-slanting rays of the early morning sun glinted bright among the ash. Duncan stepped forward and picked up the small ball of orange glass with a leaf-shaped smear of green. He held it gingerly, for it was still hot. When he blew upon it, so that the moisture from his breath mixed with the chill morning air, it shattered.

Just as well. They didn't need mementos.

* * *

><p>Back at the school, Connor stripped off his filthy clothes and washed, then cleaned and sharpened his sword. He lay down on the bed, but even though he'd been up all night, he couldn't sleep, not with two quickenings slamming around in his head. He got up and put on his running clothes.<p>

Then an immortal knocked on his door. "Not now," he called, a polite way of telling them to go away, which was a polite way of saying fuck off.

But it was Ceirdwyn, and she asked him "please", so he finished putting on his shoes then went with her to the immortal conclave in the teacher's lounge. Ceirdwyn locked the door and Connor got out the whisky, no matter that it was not yet noon, and within the shadowed room, Chelle told them all the truth.

Gregor whistled softly, and Baden muttered, "Damn." Duncan nodded, eyes somber, while Ceirdwyn bowed her head and pressed her hands together as if in prayer. "Neverland," she repeated.

Second star to the right, and straight on till morning. And no way to ever get home. Connor leaned back in his chair and blinked his eyes to clear them, his lids scraping over grit.

"I'm sorry about Preston," Gregor told Ceirdwyn, taking her hand.

She lifted her head, the stark planes of her face carving a terrible beauty out of shadows and grief. "Another one we found too late."

Too late, too early… immortality could go wrong in many different ways. And since "David" was Preston, he couldn't have been the shooter/beheader they'd been hearing about these past twenty years; he was too young. The shooter was still out there, not playing by the rules. Connor idly swirled the amber liquid in his glass, watching it go round and round.

"I found Terah's diary," Chelle said, putting a green notebook on the table. "Seems Tomas wasn't the first pre-immortal she's killed."

"What?" Duncan asked, leaning forward, and Baden said, "Who?"

"Zachary," Connor answered, seeing now why Terah had kept mentioning that name. "The night before his birthday."

Chelle nodded. "As soon as he revived and realized—"

"—he cut off his own head," Ceirdwyn finished, and everyone was silent, remembering that neatly orchestrated auto-decapitation in the barn.

"How'd she kill him?" Baden asked.

"A knife."

"We did knives in martial arts this summer," Gregor said. "She was very keen." He looked over at the collection of swords on the wall, which now included Preston's. "And we do teach them to kill."

There was more silence then. Connor took a sip of whiskey, and then another one.

"We should tell the kids about immortality," Baden said, as he had argued before. "They deserve to be warned."

"You'd tell a five-year-old that he'll be immortal someday," Gregor with flat disbelief. "That people will try to kill him with swords."

"If it motivates him to take sword lessons seriously, and that helps him to survive? Damn straight I'd tell. I'd sure as hell tell a fifteen-year-old."

"Or an eighteen-year-old," Chelle put in, fixing Duncan with a steady stare. "If I'd known—"

"You'd have been even more reckless," Duncan interrupted. Chelle's eyes narrowed, but she didn't disagree.

"If Tomas had known, he wouldn't have fallen for Terah's trick." Now it was Baden staring at Connor. "He would still be alive."

And if Chelle had killed Terah months ago like she should have done, none of this would have happened at all.

"We don't tell pre-immortals when they're young," Duncan said. "They need a chance for a normal life."

"Yeah?" Baden challenged. "And how's that 'normal life' working out for Tomas?" He snapped his fingers in an elaborate show of forgetting and said, "Oh, right. Not so good. 'Cause he's dead."

"We tell them when they graduate," Ceirdwyn said, joining the discussion and calming everyone down. "There would be too much chatter about it here if they all knew. And don't forget: it's our secret, too."

"So, how were you going to explain Terah to them?" Baden asked. "When the other kids noticed that she always looked nine?"

"I'd been making plans for her to leave," Ceirdwyn informed them. "Next month, actually."

Too fucking late. Again. Connor reached for the bottle and poured himself another drink.

"Is there anything else, Chelle?" Ceirdwyn asked, her usual graciousness gone brittle.

"I'm afraid so." She looked at the green diary, still on the table. "That night, before Terah killed Zachary, they became sexual partners."

Baden gagged in disgust. "How could he?"

"She was seductive," Gregor reminded them.

"And persistent," Duncan added.

Connor had had to tell her "no" only once. Duncan had probably been too nice about it.

Ceirdwyn was staring out the window at the cloudy sky. "Zachary was very lonely."

"So was she," Chelle said. She opened the diary and laid it flat so everyone could see. On one page, Terah had written her name over and over again, as people often do, especially when they don't know who they are. It was dated May 15, soon after she'd started to learn to read and write. The letters were big and over-controlled, painstakingly neat. On the facing page, the letters on each line were rearranged to spell other words:

TERAH  
>EARTH<br>RATHE  
>HATER<br>HEART

Before each word, in blue ink, she'd written "I am", and in the margin, she'd drawn a globe after the word "earth", a blossom after "rathe" and a lightning bolt after "hater". The spaces after her name and "heart" were blank, but a large heart encompassed all five words. A black zigzag line had been drawn on top of that shape, all the way around.

On the bottom of the page, in smaller letters and in black ink, were the words: "I am a broken heart."

Ceirdwyn reached out to touch the page, to trace the jagged edges of the heart. "I suggested she keep a diary, and she would show it to me every week. But that diary was pink. I never saw this one." She shook her head, lips pressed tight. "She seemed to be getting better. I didn't realize just how much she lied."

"What's a rathe?" Baden asked.

"It's an old English word," Duncan said. "It means fruit that ripens too early."

"And then gets blasted by frost," Connor added, just in case the non-farmers didn't get it, then he finished all the whisky in his glass. It wasn't enough. He closed his eyes again, sinking down in his chair.

"OK," Baden said. "A tragedy. I get that. And I get why you killed her," he said to Chelle. "She was a menace, like Kenny."

"Is Kenny blond, looks about ten years old?" Duncan asked immediately.

"That's him," Baden confirmed. "Kenny fed me a line about being new, and I bought it. But Chelle was on to the little bastard, and she took his head."

"Oh," Duncan said, sounding surprised, but then added, "Good."

"Amanda had warned me about him," Chelle explained. "She still cried when I told her Kenny was dead."

Yesterday, Connor had seen Chelle crying for Terah, and years ago, Cassandra had cried for Roland, who'd been a sadistic, murdering thug. Killing a child was never easy, no matter how evil or how old.

"But then Amanda said she knew that Kenny had to die," Chelle added.

"Right," Baden agreed. "So did Terah. But Tomas? What the hell, Connor?"

Connor opened his eyes to find Baden looking straight at him, indignantly fierce, saying, "He was a good kid."

Connor damn well knew that.

"He wasn't a threat to anyone," Baden continued. "So why'd you kill him?"

"He was seven years old," Connor said, stating the obvious.

"Yeah, so?"

Duncan answered that question: "Immortal children don't turn out well."

"And how many immortal adults 'don't turn out well'?" Baden demanded. "Fifteen percent? Fifty? Do you kill every adult immortal on sight, too, just in case they might 'turn out' bad?"

"No, of course not," Duncan answered.

"Then why don't kids get the same chance?"

"Because," Connor explained with weary patience, "they are easy targets for every headhunter on the planet. And every pedophile."

"They could live here at the school," Baden suggested, "for a—"

"—forever?" Connor interrupted. "Are you volunteering Ceirdwyn for that eternal job? Or are you going to stay here and watch over them for the rest of your life?"

"We could take turns," Baden said stubbornly. "Say, ten years at a time."

Connor raised an eyebrow at him. "You won't find many volunteers to change thirty thousand diapers."

"Tomas wasn't in diapers."

"Some of them are," Duncan put in. "I met a toddler once, about eighteen months old. When her father saw her healing and realized she hadn't grown for a while, he thought she was possessed by a demon."

Connor had heard that explanation for immortality before. Kate had named him demon, just before his clan had driven out with sharp-edged rocks and sharper words.

"So the father killed her," Duncan was saying, "then he started to bury her. When she revived, half-covered with dirt, he beat her to death with his shovel, then started burying her again. I don't know how many times she suffocated before I dug her out."

"And then you took her head?" Chelle asked in dismay.

"Yes, I did," Duncan said evenly. "To keep her safe. To keep her from an eternity of pain."

"Well, shit," Baden said, "why not just kill us all now? To keep us safe? To keep us from an eternity of pain?"

Sometimes, Connor was tempted. But he explained again, "Because we're old enough to take care of ourselves. They're not, and they never will be."

"Kenny was nearly a thousand years old," Baden shot back. "He lasted a hell of a lot longer than most immortals do. Seems to me he took care of himself fine."

"But Kenny wasn't 'fine'," Chelle contradicted, and her eyes were unfocused, looking inside. "He was angry and miserable and lonely." She looked at the book on the table, still showing a broken heart. "Like Terah."

"Like all of us," Gregor pointed out. "At times." He turned to Baden. "You asked what percentage of immortals 'turn out' bad. I can't say, but I will say that eventually, one hundred percent of us will 'go bad', at least for a while."

Baden—and Chelle—blinked in surprise then looked at each other before looking around at the elder four. One by one, they nodded. "We all have dark times," Ceirdwyn said.

Baden cursed under his breath, looking scared. Chelle's lips were tight together, and she wouldn't meet Connor's eyes.

"Sometimes, we lose perspective," Duncan explained. "Three hundred years ago, when the English invaded my county and were slaughtering my people, I killed Englishmen in return. A lot of them. I became what I was trying to kill. Finally," he said, glancing at Ceirdwyn, "and with help, I realized that, and I stopped."

"And sixty years ago, when I was hurting people," Gregor shared, "Duncan helped me to stop."

"You?" Chelle said in surprise. "But..."

"I'm a doctor, and doctors are supposed to help, I know. But doctors see a lot of death. After a while, that's all I saw: death, suffering, pain. Nothing lasted. Nothing mattered. Why not end it all?"

"Ouch." Chelle winced. "They warned us about depression in med school."

"They need to. It can be deadly, both to you and to others. Some people kill for no reason other than fun, but most people cause pain because they're in pain themselves."

Chelle touched Baden's hand, and he turned back to her. "Remember Alvarez?" she asked. "That village in the mountains?"

Baden grimaced. "War can fuck you up that way."

"My first war was when the Romans came," Ceirdwyn said. "My tribe lost. Some people killed their children and then themselves, so that they would die free and never have to live as slaves in the mines or the galleys or the brothels."

Baden was shaking his head. "Yeah, but that's not—"

Damn it, enough! Connor stood and slammed the flat of his hand down on the table, and five heads instantly turned his way. "The Game is war," Connor reminded the two young ones harshly. "We're either soldiers in it, or prisoners of it."

"We're both," Ceirdwyn said softly. "Soldiers and prisoners."

"The kids are prisoners," he ground out. "Forever. And an endless war is no place for an eternal child."

* * *

><p>Connor left the room and went running, ten miles at a punishing pace. As he got back to the school, a black crow took off from the stripped and empty garden, and Connor stopped to watch. The crow's wings beat steadily as it aimed for a bare oak tree nearby. It took up a sentinel perch on a high branch, black beak jabbing like a needle into the sodden gray sky. The harshly rhythmic call was answered by another, and then a third, and then a hundred birds came to roost, flowing across the sky in a black wave, until the tree fluttered with a new crop of leaves, feather black instead of oaken green. It was a river of birds in migration. A nation, a river of wings.<p>

Alex used to sing that song, when she was putting Sara and Colin to bed, half a century ago.

Connor turned on his heel and headed to the dojo. He needed exercise. A hard workout, some kata, maybe another run…

Apparently Chelle had the same idea, for she was in the corner beating the hell out of a punching bag. He nodded in greeting but said nothing. He wasn't in the mood to talk.

She stopped anyway and asked, "Run far?"

"Ten."

"Me, too."

Connor nodded then went to the wall and picked up a jump rope from its hook. Chelle got the message and went back to punching the bag, while Connor worked up to a steady rhythm, his feet beating an insistent tattoo on the floor in counterpoint to her fists.

When he stopped to wipe away the sweat, Chelle stopped too. She came over to him, eyes intent and mouth tight, and even under her loose exercise clothes, the lines of her body showed tense as a drawn bow. "Spar?" she suggested.

"Not now."

But she took hold of one of the ends of the jump rope and wound it about her hand, so that they were joined by that thin, taut line. "Now," she said.

He should tell her no. Neither of them had yet climbed down from the bloody ragged edge of a quickening. But her eyes were fierce with desperation and haunted by guilt and grief and rage, and climbing out of that pit was damn near impossible on your own, so he told her, "Get your sword," and then he went and locked the door.

"Limits?" she asked, as they faced each other, blade in hand.

"Don't cut anything off," he told her then asked in turn: "Limits?"

Her smile was feral, but more tragic than frightening. "Don't be gentle with me," she told him, but before she'd finished the last word, she attacked.

He barely got his sword up in time. They'd sparred a few times before, but only politely in front of students, and she hadn't been aggressive then. Connor swiftly settled into the bout, staying on the defensive and letting her take the lead. She was no match for him in strength or size, but she was quick and well-trained, and she got in a few good cuts. Connor gave her one each in return.

Chelle's eyes narrowed in frustration, and she launched another attack. She was reckless, therefore unpredictable, therefore dangerous. When the tip of her blade came unnervingly close to his eyes, he'd had enough. He shifted from defense to attack, forcing her backward, cutting her in quick succession on the forearm, the ribs, the thigh. She hobbled away, panting and bleeding, her sword held too low. Connor wiped his bloody left hand on his thigh, pushed the remains of his shirt sleeve above the elbow to get it out of the way, and marshaled his breathing, using the moment to recuperate.

But she'd healed, too, and she came at him again, this time with the shriek of a banshee and the uncaring ferocity of a berserker, and her slash at his leg could have sliced him to the bone if he hadn't pivoted away. So he stabbed her, with a thrust and then a twist in the lower back, slicing up her kidneys, and then he stepped back to watch her die.

She almost lived through it, her healing was that quick, and she came back almost right away. She blindly groped her way to the water jug in the corner then drank down a lot, sitting on the floor.

"Had enough?" he asked as set their swords on a table near the door.

She crushed the cup between her hands. "No."

"Then get up," he told her, feeling no pity, no rage, just a vast, weary irritation with the whole fucking mess of the Game. She needed to get over this destructive self-loathing and guilt, or she'd never survive. And it was up to him to force her through it, bound together as they were.

Chelle took a deep breath and rose to her feet in one smooth motion, then walked over to face him with empty hands.

He hit her. Not hard, just a slap across the face.

She blinked in surprise and rage, and then she hit him in return, a stinging slap that left him tasting blood. He hit her again, with the back of his hand, and she had to shake her head to clear it before she kicked him just below the knee cap, and he bit into his lip as hot spikes drove up behind the bone. And so it went between them, each taking a turn, but there was no passion this time, only pain.

Because that the way out of the pit, that eternal black well of loss, deep with grief and guilt, numbing and cold. Pain was red-hot. Pain was real. Pain was how you paid for your sins, taking—seeking—the punishment you deserved.

Eventually, after both of them were bloody and bruised and she'd broken his nose with her elbow and he'd knocked her to the floor, Connor realized that Chelle wasn't fighting back anymore. She wasn't defending herself either. She was just lying there, letting him hit her. He wasn't even sure how many times, but his fists were smeared bright red, and her face was a swollen bloody pulp.

Part of him wanted to throw up; part of him wanted to hit her again. And part of him wanted to strip her naked and take her, brutally, right there on the floor, and listen to her cry.

"Christ," he muttered in self-disgust and shame, then climbed off her to sit nearby on the floor, his hands pressed tight against his eyes, wishing not to see. Not to remember, either. This wasn't the first time he'd gone too far. "Idiot," he told himself, because he should have told her no. Both today and when she'd come to his room a month ago. Once that beast inside was let loose, even for a stroll, it was damn hard to keep it in its cage. And right after two quickenings…

"Idiot," he said again.

He mopped his blood off his face with his shirt and wiped his hands. Connor got them cups of water then carefully gathered Chelle into his arms. She whimpered, either in pain or in fear, and he soothed her with gentle words and held her while she healed. The skin was already smoother, bones knitting together, bruises melting away. He dipped the corner of his shirt in the water and wiped away some of the blood.

"I'm sorry," he told her as soon as she opened her eyes.

A bitter smile started, but she winced as the skin of her lower lip split again, and then she sat up and shrugged. "I was asking for it."

True. But he'd given her more than she needed. More than he should have.

Chelle was staring at him intently. "Your nose is crooked."

He sat still as she set it straight, enduring—welcoming—another burst of pain. As they cleaned their blood from the floor, he advised, "When you're hating yourself this much, go to a friend who understands or go to a mortal who doesn't mind inflicting pain. Start a bar fight, if you have to. But don't take a challenge. You'll probably lose."

She thoughtfully squeezed out a towel into the bucket. A red flower blossomed in the water. "Dark times, huh?" Chelle asked.

"Dark times," he agreed.

She sat back on her heels, looking at him intently again. "So what have you done, in your 'dark times'?"

I strangled a naked woman in my bed. I stabbed my student in the heart and watched him die. I've laughed as I butchered men in battle and then licked their spattered blood from my hands and gone back for more. I've tossed men overboard to drown. I've beaten a man senseless and kicked him when he was down, and I smile when I kill.

Connor didn't say any of that. "Different things, here and there." He scrubbed at a blood drop that had dried. "Fighting too much. Drinking too much."

"Yeah," she agreed ruefully. "Drinking too much is how I got Husband Number Two, right after I got out of the Marines."

"Fifty-two days?" Connor guessed.

"Fifty-two days," she confirmed. "At least I got a new name out of it." She went back to cleaning before asking, "Did someone help you? Out of the dark?"

"Duncan warned me off a time or two. And other friends." Kastigir, Bouchet, Nakano… On occasion, Alex and Rachel and Colin had all expressed concern. Cassandra had, too, much more bluntly and more than once. But he was a warrior, damn it. The Game left him no choice.

That stubborn blood drop was finally gone, and the floor was clean. Connor was washing his hands when an immortal pounded on the dojo door.

Chelle unlocked it and was met by Baden, come to prepare for his afternoon class. Baden took one look at her sliced and bloody clothing then glared at Connor with an outrage only slightly mollified by the sight of Connor's own tattered attire. "Nosebleed," Chelle airily proclaimed, and Baden gritted his teeth but said nothing as Chelle and Connor walked out the door.

* * *

><p>She came to his room that night, but waited in the hallway for Connor to open his door. He stood in the opening, blocking the way, but when she told him, "I don't want us to hurt each other anymore," Connor let her in. Moonlight spilled into the room, laying a silver sheen upon them, and they were gentle with each other in the night.<p>

The next morning before sunrise, as they lay in bed still curled around each other, he shared with her what helped him find his way, even in the dark times. "Every year, I light candles for the people in my family," he told Chelle. "Remembering them grounds me."

"I like that," Chelle said with a thoughtful nod. "Do you agree with Gregor, that we cause pain because we're in pain?"

"Yeah, sometimes, but it's not that simple," Connor said. "With the Game, if you don't like to fight—and to kill—on some level, then you won't survive. Not for long."

She nodded. "Fire in the belly, my sergeant called it. Like when you were fighting David."

"Right." Connor was glad he didn't have to explain.

"And like when you were hitting me?"

Fuck. He didn't want to explain this. "I didn't realize you'd given up," he told her.

"I wondered," she said then added, "You were laughing."

In the darkness, Connor closed his eyes. The sounds still came back anyway: the succulent crunch of fist upon flesh, her mangled moans, and his harsh gasp of brutal laughter between each blow. "I didn't know. I wasn't…" Connor gritted his teeth, but he owed her the truth. "I lost control," he admitted.

"I figured," she said. "One quickening is bad enough. Two…" Chelle shook her head. "I should never have asked you to spar."

"I should never have agreed. And I'm sorry," he told her again.

She rose up on her elbow and kissed him, quick and sweet, before saying, "Done is done."

Connor liked that approach, and he liked when she kissed him again, longer and sweeter this time.

After, when they'd slept again and the sun had risen and they were getting dressed, she asked, "When are you leaving?"

He hadn't said anything, but he wasn't surprised that she knew. "As soon as the cops are satisfied." He hoped it was before the snow came. He needed to go home. "You?"

"Depends what the kids need."

He liked that about her. Loyalty and commitment were rare. "I'd like to see you again," he told Chelle. "Someday."

A smile danced around her mouth. "I'd like to see you again, too, Connor MacLeod. Someday."

* * *

><p><strong>Bengaluru India, April 2053<strong>

* * *

><p>The spring rains had started and the flowers were budding when a letter for Dr. Kyle Winston arrived at the Space Research Center and eventually, via a few forwardings, ended up on Methos's desk, with a note from Dr. Hirakawa saying: "a note from a friend of your uncle".<p>

"I didn't know Dr. Winston was your uncle, James," Raj commented. "Your family name is Coulsen."

"He was my mother's brother," Methos replied. He looked up at his coworker with a grin. "Taught me everything I know."

"That explains why you know so much, and you so young," Raj said. "I saw him speak once, at a conference years ago. Excellent presentation." He peered at Methos and commented, "You do look a bit like him," then went back to work on the fuel consumption calculations.

Methos stared at his former name on the envelope, wondering if Duncan was still using the name Justin Morris. He'd adopted it only seven years before. Serena had become Jillian Vathos and joined the space program. He hadn't seen her in a decade, but he'd recognized her in the picture of the Ganymede expedition, which was orbiting Jupiter now. Cassandra's latest incarnation was Elise Daugherty, and she was a sworn priestess, moving up in the temple hierarchy.

Names came and went; their hobbies and interests remained. Some of them, anyway. Methos abruptly pulled the paper from the envelope to read: "Landed in Ireland, going to Dartmoor. Cash in that rain check?" Duncan had added the line: "I'd like to see you." It was signed simply "DM". A small card held a printed address for "Justin Morris."

Four and a half-years ago, they'd made plans to go riding in Dartmoor. First a bomb and then a volcano had intervened. Nice to know Duncan hadn't forgotten.

Methos briefly entertained the idea of just showing up in England without sending an answer as a surprise, but he couldn't leave now; the space launch was in forty-six days, and it would be rude to make Duncan wait that long. Beneath Duncan's initials Methos wrote: "Check will be cashed this autumn –with interest" and he signed it simply "M." He folded the letter, placed it in a new envelope addressed to Justin Morris, and sent it on its way. Then he turned to give Raj a hand.

* * *

><p>A few days later after work, Methos walked through the gardens on his way home. The coming of the rains had washed the dust and grime from the leaves. Other people had the same idea, and he strolled the paths with the rest of the crowds, half-listening to the chatter of a thousand busy lives, enjoying the evening. He climbed the ancient rocks to the remains of the tower that centuries ago had marked the boundary of the city. In the distance, modern skyscrapers marked out new boundaries.<p>

Rain started, and people began to leave, gathering their belongings, pulling hoods over their hair. Methos stood a moment longer, head flung back and mouth open to taste the rain then followed them down. He ate dinner in town then headed for home, down the street, past the fountain, and into the alley that led to the boulevard.

The narrow passageway was made darker by windowless buildings rising high on either side, and so he first mistook the dark pool for water, when it was really blood, and he didn't notice the crumpled body in the doorway until he'd nearly kicked the severed head across the way.

It had been a pretty head, young and female, dark of hair and dark of eyes. Perhaps a local. Perhaps not very old. He didn't see a sword.

Methos bade her a silent farewell and kept on walking. He couldn't help her, and she'd be found eventually. He didn't feel like convincing the police he hadn't been involved, not when he was carrying a sword quite capable of doing the deed.

He was five steps from the body when another immortal arrived at the end of the alley, a slim figure swathed in black and veiled, with hidden hands. A friend of the dead woman? Or the killer returned? Either would be dangerous, so Methos took out his stunner and shot her, intending to ask questions later.

Unfortunately, she had come to the same decision, and her shot caught him under the left clavicle and trailed fire across his chin and left cheek. He jerked away but kept to his feet, until someone else shot him, from behind this time. Then the pavement was wet and slippery beneath his palms and against his cheek, and the toes of his feet cramped in excruciating pain. He could not move at all. He believed he smelt fermenting bananas nearby.

"Is he dead?" a voice asked, far above him, wavering away, like wisps of a cloud.

"Not yet," came the cool reply.

Not yet, Methos echoed with desperate silence inside his head. Damn it all to hell and back again, not _yet. _He wasn't ready yet. He hadn't had enough time. Then a stun gun buzzed close to his right ear, and the world dissolved in a splintering rainbow of pain.

Darkness came.

* * *

><p><strong><em>To be continued in "An Eye for an Eye",<br>in which Methos and Connor are forced to face their pasts and decide their futures_**


	27. An Eye for an Eye

**AN EYE FOR AN EYE**

* * *

><p><strong>The Cell - Waking<strong>

* * *

><p>Methos woke in darkness. Even so, he immediately closed his eyes, and his sigh of relief was long and heart-felt. When those two women in the alley had kidnapped him, he'd been very much afraid it was the end. Yet here he was.<p>

But where, exactly, was here? And what was it? Also: who and why and when. A veritable heavenly host of questions came crowding into his brain, but he placed them aside for now. First, what was this place?

It was, as he'd already noticed, dark. Mind-boggingly dark. The kind of utter darkness that encouraged your eyeballs to trigger the optic nerve, just for the hell of it, so your brain would go and invent colors. Close your eyes, open your eyes … no difference. Utterly dark.

Underground, probably.

Or maybe the underworld. Perhaps he really was dead, and this stygian blackness was the afterlife? Pretty dull, if so. On the whole, he'd rather be in Valhalla.

But no. He wasn't dead yet. He was breathing, lying on a firm yet yielding surface, neatly covered with a blanket, even over his toes. Someone had tucked him in. How sweet.

Someone had also changed his clothes for him. The trousers and loose shirt he wore were pajama-like, soft and warm. He was missing his shoes, his socks and his underwear, as well as his wallet and keys and comb. Also missing were his knife, his lock-picks, his file, his phone, his stun gun, and his sword. His razor-sharp wit was his only weapon now. And his hands and feet. And a well-placed elbow or knee. Or even teeth or a fingernail. He could do a lot with those.

Time for the other senses. He could hear his heart beating. This place was that quiet. "Hello?" he tried, and the dark velvety silence swallowed his voice. An underground, soundproofed room. A room that could endlessly absorb a man's screaming, with no-one in the sunlit world the wiser.

He reached out cautiously to either side then lifted his hands straight up, finding only air. He wasn't in a coffin, thank the gods. Methos despised being buried alive. The air smelled of antiseptic, a hospital smell. This room had been thoroughly cleaned. Removing the blood and sweat and (possibly) tears of the last unlucky occupant? Or just good housekeeping?

His lips tasted, faintly, of bitter salt, and his mouth was dry. He'd been drugged as well as dead. Which meant one of his captors had medical training; dosages were tricky with immortal healing. He had no idea how long he'd been unconscious. Hours at least, possibly days. Or weeks. He really hoped he hadn't missed the launch date. Or his date with MacLeod.

However long he'd been under, they'd kept him fed and hydrated. That was temporary, but still good. Methos sat up, and at his movement the lights came on, a soft glow from high above. The room was about four paces square, softly padded on the floor and all the walls, empty save for the blanket over his legs and a squat toilet and a waist-high water basin in the corner. He stood, and the lights brightened a bit more. Methos felt his way around the room and located a small pass-through at floor level (for food, he hoped) and the door. Locked, of course. This room was his cell.

Well, he had been in worse situations. He might have woken to find himself tied down and naked, left to wonder if he were in for a sex game, a torture session, or medical experimentation.

Maybe even alien abduction.

Not bloody likely. Those women in the alley had been immortals. But clearly, they wanted more than just his head, or they'd have taken it by now. So … all in all, good. Or at least, not utterly hopeless. He was alive, he was alert, and that meant he had a chance of getting out of this. Though he strongly suspected not everyone had. Those women had been calm and unhurried, practiced. They'd done this before, caught an immortal and brought him here. And then ... what? He was grimly certain he would find out soon.

When he lay back down the lights went out, and he was in total darkness once more. Perhaps they expected him to start screaming? Begging? Asking them questions?

Too bad. He knew how this game was played.

Methos closed his eyes, pulled the blanket over his shoulders, and went to sleep.

* * *

><p><strong>MacLeod Farm in the Highlands, Saturday, 13 April 2052<strong>

* * *

><p>In the Highlands, Connor came home to cold suspicion and a gun pointed at his head. He stopped walking and carefully held his hands high. The armed young man near the barn didn't waver. "Graham," Connor called reassuringly. "It's Mike Audren, your cousin." Grandfather, really, but kin was kin.<p>

"Mike?" Graham repeated, peering across the gravel drive, his face unsure but his stun gun still steady.

"I came to the family picnic five years ago, remember?" Connor prompted. "You offered to take Alea's friend horseback riding but she was pregnant, and you slept outside that night."

Graham was grinning now. "You slept in the cottage, with Laina." He put his gun away, walked through the flock of scratching chickens, and came over to shake Connor's hand.

His grip was firm; the lanky teenager Connor remembered had become a young man. The toddler he'd carried about on his shoulders would be twenty-three this summer. It didn't seem that long ago.

"It's good to see you," Graham said.

"You, too," Connor said. "But that was a hell of a greeting," he observed, though truth be told, killing strangers was an ancient tradition in the Highlands.

Graham didn't apologize for it. "We've had some troubles. How is it in North America?" he asked as they started walking.

"They have a lot of troubles," Connor replied. The school had been an oasis of well-prepared calm, thanks to Ceirdwyn, but the trip to the coast had been a walk through hell, and the journey home had taken more than a year. Getting this far into the Highlands hadn't been simple, either, what with the state of the roads, the lack of fuel, and the bridges gone. When Connor and Graham reached the stables, all was quiet. The fields were empty too, save for a few sheep. "Did you sell the horses?" Connor asked in surprise.

Graham shook his head, his mouth tight. "We ate them."

Connor swore under his breath. He hadn't thought the hunger would reach this far.

"The weather's been bad these last four years," Graham explained. "Snow, sleet, either no rain or no sun. So… no grass. We'd put up hay, but not enough. After the bridge went out, and with the snows last winter, no food was getting through. Not for the horses, not for us. Dad said it was for the best."

"Yeah," Connor had to agree. He'd told Colin stories about some hard times. He hadn't thought his son would have to live through them. He should have been here to help. He should have stayed.

But he was back now, and he and Colin could make up for lost time. They would go fishing together, build a stone wall or plant potatoes, whatever needed to be done. For however long.

Graham was looking up at the square window to the hayloft. "Ian, Orla!" he called. "You can come down now." He turned to Connor and said, "I told them to hide."

Connor nodded in approval.

Two small heads popped up, side by side, looking down at them, just like Sara and Colin used to do. They looked like Sara and Colin, too: same round faces, same curious stares. But one of these children was a tow-head, and other had coppery-red hair. Colin and Sara's hair had been brown. John had had black curls.

Connor blinked then smiled up at his great-grandchildren. Alea had been expecting a girl, so Orla was her daughter, and Ian would be Graham's son. But which was which? It was hard to tell at three years old.

"Come down and meet your cousin Mike," Graham said, and the heads disappeared. Thumps sounded on the stairs, and then the two children came walking between the stalls, holding hands. They took refuge near Graham's legs, peering out at Connor

"Mike, this is my son, Ian," Graham said, tousling the tow-head's hair. "And this is Orla, Alea's daughter."

Connor went down on one knee. "I'm pleased to meet you Orla, Ian," he said to them. "I'm your cousin Mike."

The red-haired girl tilted her head to one side. "Ian and I are cousins," she informed him. "So you're an old cousin, like Cousin Graham."

"Very old," Connor agreed gravely.

"I'm three," Ian announced. "How old are you?"

"Old as dirt and young as mud," he replied, which made Ian and Orla laugh and avoided the question long enough to let Connor do the math. He'd taken the name Michael Connor Audren in 2034, which meant he had to be at least thirty-eight now. He'd have to take on a new identity soon.

Ian tugged on his father's pant leg. "Can we go to the daffodil hill now?"

"We were just on our way to see if any are blooming," Graham explained.

"I know one is," Ian told him.

"You don't need to come, Mike," Graham said. "I'll walk with you to the house first."

"No," Connor said. "I'd like to go see the flowers." He'd sometimes dreamed of them these past four years, that river of gold and white flowing down the hillside, those thousands of bulbs the work of Alex's hands. He'd dreamed of Alex, too. He would visit her now, and Rachel and Sara, and then he would finally go to see his son.

"Let's go," Ian said, now tugging on his father's hand, and the four of them trudged up the long hill together. Halfway up, Ian got a pebble in his shoe and Graham knelt to take it out, then started cursing at the wet knotted mess of shoelaces, so Connor and Orla went on. The hill was frozen brown, speckled with snow and dusted here and there with thin blades of pale green. None of the daffodils was in bloom yet. Spring was late this year.

The snowdrops were up, and their tattered white blanket had spread beyond Alex's grave, touching the edge of Rachel's stone and almost reaching the three purple crocuses atop Sara's plot. New stones had been added since Connor had last stood here. A granite plinth next to Alex's grave was titled "In Memoriam" and bore the surname MacLeod above John, Gina, David, and Cynthia. All four had the same death date: October 21st, 2048. No bodies were present, of course, just the names. The entire family was buried in the ash an ocean away.

A headstone on the other side of the path read "Alan Carter, 2009-2052" and Connor had no idea who that was. But to the left of Sara's grave was a stone for Oona, his daughter-in-law. She'd died the year before, the day after New Year's, at the age of only fifty-three.

"Damn," Connor muttered in dismay, wondering how she had died.

And there was yet one more grave, set between Oona and Sara. This one was markerless, too recent to have a headstone. The bare dirt was clotted with tiny crystals of snow, and footprints still showed here and there, some tiny, some big.

Orla had bent to sweep aside the snow from a wooden sign set flat to the ground, and when she stood, Connor could finally see the name of the dead.

Colin Duncan MacLeod.

"No," Connor protested, unthinking, frozen in pain. The name wavered and blurred, but when he could read the marker again, Colin's name was still there, and the earth of the grave was still raw.

A small hand nestled into his, the fingers lining up along his thumb. "He's very sad," a clear high voice announced, and another small hand found his on the other side.

Connor held his great-grandchildren's hands tightly, tiny anchors of life in a treacherous sea. "How?" He managed that one word, his voice strangling.

"Grandpa had a balloon in his head," Ian replied.

"Brain aneurysm," Graham explained, holding his son's other hand, so that the four of them were linked like a chain. "At least it was quick."

But too soon. Too fucking soon. "When?" Connor asked. That word didn't come out easy, either.

"Last month." Graham reached out and brushed a dusting of snow from his mother's tombstone, his hand lingering. "Dad was fine that morning. It had snowed, and he said he was going to come here to light candles."

Connor had lit a lot of candles over the years. When Colin and Sara were eleven, after they'd found about immortality, they had come with him to Heather's grave. They'd been properly quiet and respectful as he lit a candle and told them some stories, but Connor had noticed a bit of restlessness in them, and anyway, he'd wanted time alone. "You should go see the waterfall down the hill," he'd said, and they'd leapt away, bounding like deer over tumbled rock walls and tussocks of grass.

"They're strong, Heather," Connor had told his first wife as he watched them run then turned to kneel in the damp grass. "And fine," he'd added, reaching out to touch her gravestone, worn smooth by more than four centuries of wind and rain. "As ours would have been." Should have been.

But if Heather had borne him children, they'd have been dead and buried long ago.

"Dad never came back for lunch," Graham was saying. "We found him here, lying between my mother and Aunt Sara. There was a candle at each grave, burned down, and one next to him, untouched. Like he knew." Graham drew a long, shaking breath. "So we buried him right here, and we lit that candle for him, and Will and Alea and I stood vigil as it burned down."

Connor nodded as he cleared his throat. "He would have liked that." He tilted his head back and stared at the sky, a mass of sullen gray, tattered in the west by the ceaseless wind. The wind that carried the souls to the sea, so his grandmother used to say, and bore them away to the far isles of the west, home of the dying sun. "When I die," Colin had sometimes said, "I want to be buried here, on the hill. Like Mom."

Now he was. And so were Sara and Rachel, and John had a tombstone here, too, though his bones lay in far-off lands. Connor hadn't expected to come home and see all four of his children laid out in one neat row.

"Come," Graham said to the children. "Let's go look for that daffodil."

Orla squeezed Connor's fingers before she let go. Their voices faded quickly, tattered by that chill west wind, and Connor stood there motionless for a good long while before sinking to his knees and laying his bare hands upon the grave of his youngest son. It took another long while before he could whisper, "Goodbye."

* * *

><p>When Connor finally came down off the hill, Graham was working in the garden next to the house. The chickens were scattered around him; the children were nowhere to be seen. "I would have warned you," Graham said in apology as he stood and wiped the dirt from his hands. "I'd forgotten you and Dad were friends, that you went fishing every autumn."<p>

Those fishing trips had been a few days out of a year, scraps of time, scattered much too wide. In the beginning, it had all been crammed together: crying babies, feeding time, changing diapers, sleeping, and feeding time again. Then came the playful years of tossing baseballs, riding horses, and teaching Colin how to track rabbits and play cards and use the forge. Connor had watched Colin grow from child to man, become a husband and then a father, take over the farm, bury his mother and his sister, and smile as he talked of his first grandchild.

No more.

Graham was heading to the house, and Connor followed through the garden that he and Alex had planted, past the stone wall that he and Duncan had built, and up to the farmhouse that he had lived in for years. "Everybody's back from town," Graham said, opening the door, and Connor abruptly found himself in his own kitchen, painted the wrong color and crowded with people he didn't know.

"This is my cousin, Mike Audren," Graham announced as heads turned their way. "This is Fila, mother of Ian, and her parents, Philippa and Andrew Barton," Graham said of a young woman setting the table for luncheon and a middle-aged couple bringing over food. The younger woman smiled, the older woman nodded to him, and the man set down a soup kettle to shake Connor's hand.

"And here are Coby and Neill," Graham said, and a pair of freckled redheads, one pouring water from a jar into glasses and the other slicing bread, said hello. "They live in the guest cottage and help with the farm. We'll be planting potatoes this afternoon."

There was a definite pause, and Connor roused himself to say, "Maybe I could help."

"Good," Andrew said with an approving smile. "Would you care to join us in the meal, Mike, before we go to the field?"

Connor suspected that if he hadn't offered to help, he might not have been invited to eat. "Thank you, I would like that," he said, and Fila set another plate and bowl on the far side of the squared table, making the total only seven. "Alea and Will aren't joining us?" Connor was eager to see his other grandchildren, to see how much Will had grown. He'd be eighteen now.

"Alea's upstairs with the children," Andrew said, pulling out a chair for his wife and then sitting next to her. "And Will stayed in town."

"With Betta?" Coby asked, sliding onto a bench.

"That was last month," Fila informed him. She and Graham sat opposite her parents. "Now it's Kyla."

"That Will," Neill said, joining Coby on the bench and shaking his head with profound admiration and a touch of envy.

Apparently, Will had grown quite a lot. Connor took the solo spot, next to an empty chair. Probably Alea and Will usually sat on that side. The table was missing two of its leaves, making it square instead of long, but it was the same table Connor had brought to the farm fifty years before, and John's initials still showed. Connor searched the underside of the table with his fingertips, tracing out the lines that formed CDMcL and SHMcL, where Sara and Colin had hidden (so they thought) their own brands.

Philippa led the blessing, and the meal began.

* * *

><p><strong>The Cell - Wondering<strong>

* * *

><p>When Methos woke up, it was still dark. The silent room still smelt of cleanser.<p>

Nothing had changed, except that he needed to piss. He got up, made use of the toilet in the corner, and then decided to get some exercise. Stretches, pushups, sit-ups, jogging round the room. He ended up right where he had started. There was nowhere to go.

What did they want from him? Why go to all this trouble and then just leave him? Who were they, and why was he here, and where the hell was "here" anyway?

Methos took a calming breath and silently recited the first twenty digits of pi. Don't get rattled, don't freak out. Play your own waiting game, not theirs, and be ready to make your move.

Or … perhaps … the entire game was in the waiting. Perhaps they were going to make him wait for days, possibly years, just to see how he reacted. Perhaps this was an experiment after all. He amused himself—and perhaps his captors—by reciting in full the names of every bone in the hands and feet, dexter and sinister. Then he did the other hundred-odd bones.

Apparently, someone had been listening, for a few moments after he finished, the ceiling screen switched from illumination to interactive. Methos selected a newsfeed, and its timestamp told him he'd been nabbed three days ago (assuming the feed was not recorded or manipulated). His employer might have reported him missing by now. Or simply fired him. Or both.

Methos took his time exploring the options. The ceiling reacted to voice, eye movement, and hand motions. It was out of reach, and so there was no chance of taking it apart and making a radio or a weapon or any such Tom Swift contraption. His free time was obviously designed to be more passive than aggressive. He could select from an immense library of video, audio, or plain text, or set the screen to show the clouds or the night sky, the stars wheeling slowly above. He settled for medium intensity lighting, stretched out on the floor, and read bits and snippets of various things for a few hours.

At the approach of an immortal, he got to his feet, but it was only a meal, placed inside the pass-through for him to retrieve. The small doors were connected, so that when his side was open, the other was closed, and vice versa. No grabbing the hands of the guards through the bars. The food was spicy pea soup inside a bread bowl. No spoon. He ate the soup and then the bread, licked his fingers clean, and scooped water from the basin with his hands. In lieu of a toothbrush, he scrubbed his teeth with his forefinger and scraped away tartar with a fingernail.

Then he lay down again and watched a documentary on the lives of silk worms. When it was over, he set the ceiling to night sky and considered the situation. Room service, peace and quiet, plenty to read, a chance to watch every single episode of _Dr. Who_… why, he might have paid for a vacation like this.

But his vacation would not have included the locked door.

* * *

><p><strong>The MacLeod Farm, Saturday evening<strong>

* * *

><p>The potato planting had lasted until it was nearly too dark to see. Hands cold and muddy, tired in body and soul, Connor stood and stretched, his muscles protesting, then joined the others for the trek back to the house. "We've a bed for you tonight, if you like," Fila offered. "And a bath before we eat dinner."<p>

"I'd love all three," Connor replied. "Thank you."

The bathwater was hot but just enough to wash in, no luxurious soaking, and Connor finished quickly then went to the kitchen to help. The room smelled of baking bread, and Alea was stirring soup in a kettle at the stove, hair tied up in a ponytail, wearing a sweater and jeans. Orla and Ian were at a low table in the corner, solemnly counting silverware. "One, two, three, six, twenty-leven, ten…"

For a moment, Connor saw Alex at that stove, and Sara and Colin were toddlers again. John sat at the long table, his homework spread around him in neat piles, while Rachel sat in the rocking chair near the stove, a cat on her lap, and the family was together again.

But when Alea turned and smiled in delight to see him, the name she called out was "Mike!", not Connor, and she greeted him with a hug, not a kiss. "It's wonderful to see you," she said warmly.

"You, too," Connor replied. He didn't want to let go of her hands or to stop looking at her. In the shape of her eyes, the curve of her cheek, the way she moved and the way she smiled, he could see traces of Sara, of Alex, and even of Alex's mom. Alea carried on the family tradition of beauty, in her own unique way. Smoky black hair framed a lovely face with crystalline blue eyes, and her skin was the shade of coffee with cream. "You look good," he told her. "Motherhood agrees with you."

"Most days," she said, grinning, a lightning flash that dazzled, and then she looked him up and down. "You look good, too. Just the same as I remember."

Connor let that slide by.

Then she asked, serious now, "Did you find Uncle John, when you went to North America?"

"No," he had to tell her. "Only ash."

She nodded slowly, unsurprised. "Uncle Colin had a marker set in the graveyard for the family two years ago."

"I saw," Connor replied. "That's good." They smiled at each other a little, and he finally let go of her hands. There was work to be done and children to be tended to, so Connor set the table with Orla and Ian's help while Alea went back to the stove.

"Did you ever find a daffodil in bloom?" Connor asked his great-grandchildren.

"Of course," Ian replied as he reached up to place a fork on the table. "It told me it was awake."

"Told you?" Connor repeated.

"He hears plants," Orla explained. She was doing the spoons.

Connor had been down this road before. "Did you know your Great-Aunt Sara could hear trees?"

Ian nodded. "Daddy told me. After I said the potatoes were thirsty. He said I have 'the ear.' My Grandpa did, too. He heard horses and birds and cats and dogs."

And people sometimes, Connor knew, though Colin had learned early to block that out.

"I have the sight," Orla piped up. "Like Cousin Will."

The talent was showing up younger in each generation; Sara and Colin had been teens when their dreams began, and Will had been seven or so. "What do you see, Orla?" Connor asked.

"Shadows." She looked up at him, her nose wrinkled in adorable perplexity. "But yours is the wrong color."

"It's gray," he assured her. "Like everybody's."

"Sun shadows are always gray," she told him seriously. "Soul shadows are different colors. Mine and Ian's are dark and furry, and Tiger's is blue, but she's a cat, and grownups' shadows are red or brown or sometimes green, except for Uncle Colin's was all white and misty, the morning that he died, and so was Mrs. Culbert's last week, and everybody went to her funeral today."

"A death poukah," Connor said, and both children stopped and looked up at him. "On the day you're born, a group of poukahs wait in the shadows." Connor said, sitting down to repeat the story his mother had told him, five centuries before. The children gathered near. "When you breathe for the very first time, one poukah comes forth and claims you for its own. It sits on your shoulder or follows you close, and you can never outrun it or hide from it, no matter how far or how fast you go, for all your living days."

"What do they look like?" Ian wanted to know.

"Anything they want to, or nothing at all. Some say," Connor said, leaning closer and speaking more softly, "they have sharp claws, dark fur, and eyes of gold, and their tongues dangle long and red." He decided not to mention the hook on the end of the tongue or the circle of needle teeth that latched onto your heart and slowly sucked it dry. Those details had given him nightmares for years.

Even so, Ian and Orla's eyes were wide, and they shivered with delight. "Poukah," Orla repeated, "I like that. Poukah," she said again, trying out the word, and then Ian chimed in, with the both them chanting: "Poukah, poukah, poukah."

"Don't," Connor ordered, with a bit more force than he'd intended, and they went silent straightaway, eyes wide again. Some stories dug their claws in deep. "Don't ever call it by name," he warned then added a smile to lighten the mood. "You might wake it up."

"Is yours asleep?" Orla asked. "Is that why your shadow is dark, like ours?"

"Maybe," Connor said with a shrug. "Maybe I'm not going to die for a long time. Like you." He winked and they giggled and the shadows faded away. "Let's finish the table." He stood and went back to placing knives while Orla followed with the spoons. Soon everyone arrived, and the room grew noisy with chatter and laughter during the meal.

* * *

><p>After dinner, by the fire in the living room, Connor sought out Graham to say what he should have said earlier that day. "I'm sorry about your father. And your mother."<p>

"Thank you." Graham drew a long, steadying breath before saying, "It was such a shock when Dad went. With my mother, we had warning. The cancer took time."

Connor winced and said, "I'm sorry," again, because there was really nothing else to say.

"It was for the best," Graham said resolutely. "At the end, she was tired and hurting. So we had one last Christmas and New Year's together, and then Dad helped her go."

"Damn," Connor muttered. He had helped his wife Alex let go of life, after she had helped him let go of her. "That's hard."

Graham nodded but said, "It was good that we all had the chance to say goodbye."

Connor had lost that chance forever with his sons.

But Alea said, "Did you give Mike the letter Uncle Colin wrote him?" and Graham snapped his fingers then beckoned Connor to follow. All three of them went down the hall to the study, where Graham began rummaging through the oak roll-top desk that had been in the family for nearly fifty years.

But other things in the study had changed. "Where are the paintings?" Connor asked, motioning to the bare wall.

"You mean the fellow in the kilt and the woman with the butterflies?" Alea asked, and when Connor nodded, she said, "I'm not sure, but Philippa would know. She's been cleaning the house from top to bottom since she moved in two years ago."

She had better not thrown them away.

"They're in the attic," Graham said, without looking up from his search. "In his will, Dad said he was leaving them to you, along with a few other things. I'll bring them down tomorrow."

"Thanks," Connor said, not trusting himself to speak more.

"Hah!" Graham exclaimed with satisfaction then came over with a sealed envelope and handed it to Connor. "Dad always did say you'd come back. He was sure of it."

Connor held the letter carefully, reading and re-reading the name of Michael Connor Audren, written in Colin's sprawling hand. "I shouldn't have been gone so long." He shouldn't have gone at all. He rubbed his hand across his eyes and told his grandchildren, "It's been a long day."

"You're in Will's room tonight, since he's not here," Alea said then offered, "I can show you the way."

"No need," Connor replied. That had been Colin's room, back when he had been a boy. They all said goodnight, and Connor made his way up the stairs.

The room looked much the same: the narrow bed next to the window, the dresser and bookshelves pushed up against low wall under the eave. The books were different, more fiction and no veterinary care. One of Will's shambles was hanging from the ceiling: a sea shell, a scrap of cloth, a braided loop of horsehair, and intricate knotting in some pattern that Connor couldn't see. Connor gave it a push, and it twirled slowly around, then unwound the other way.

Then he sat on the bed, neatly slit the envelope with his knife, and found a smaller envelope, this one addressed to Connor MacLeod. Connor opened it then finally unfolded the farewell message from his son. It was dated from January the year before, the day after Oona had died.

"Dear Dad," it began, and Connor had to stop right there, his eyes closed tight and his breathing slow and controlled. It took him a long while to read it all, to get to the closing line that brought him to tears— "Your loving son, Colin Duncan MacLeod"—and then to the addendum that made him smile: "PS: Don't forget to have fun!"

* * *

><p><strong>The Cell - Asking<strong>

* * *

><p>Methos woke at the approach of an immortal, but no food arrived this time, just a click as an intercom system turned on. Finally. He sat up promptly, and the stars on the ceiling were quickly obscured by the light of the "morning sun." He was tempted to ask: "How may I help you?" with all the faux cheerfulness of a clerk in a shop selling shoes, but that might make him seem glib and experienced at this sort of thing. Best to be the bewildered and frightened innocent. "Hello?" he called, letting his voice quaver a bit. "What do you want?" He waited then followed with the classic, "Why am I here?"<p>

A computerized voice replied, "To tell the truth."

So, this was to be an interrogation. On both sides, because he was going to learn some things, too. Voice recognition wouldn't work, not with a computer doing the talking, but speech patterns always came through.

"May I ask what this is about?" Methos said next.

"You were found next to a decapitated body."

"Yes," he admitted. "But I did not kill her."

That passed without comment. "Do you always carry a sword?"

He was an immortal. Of course he carried a sword. But not always. Not in the shower. And not right now. "No," Methos answered truthfully. "Do you have a sword?" Again, no comment. "Who are you?" he asked next. No answer came, and Methos suggested, "Shall I call you John Galt? Grand Inquisitor? How about Cassandra?" He waited two heartbeats for an answer before adding, "Eblis O'Shaughnessy?"

"Our names do not matter."

Nameless, faceless, voiceless… That was good. It meant they were taking precautions so he wouldn't be able to hunt them down later, which meant they might let him go. "I can see why you don't want to tell me who you are." Agreeing with captors made them more agreeable. "But would you mind telling me _what _you are?"

"We are the Immortal Tribunal."

Methos stifled a groan at the name. This group of legalistic kidnappers was even more pretentious than he had feared. One of Cassandra's many networks? It matched her modus operandi to a T. Perhaps she was watching him, right now. Perhaps she was the one he was talking to.

Cassandra had changed a lot from the ravening harpy who'd shrieked for his head half a century ago, but she would still get satisfaction in seeing him imprisoned. After all, he'd stripped her naked and left her spread-eagled in his tent for days, feeding her sometimes, raping her frequently, killing her on occasion. Taming her.

Was his imprisonment her long-delayed revenge? He knew damn well that Cassandra could be patient, devious, manipulative, and utterly ruthless when she needed to be. Rather like himself. But he didn't think these past decades of friendliness had been merely an act. He hadn't misread her that badly; he knew her too well. This wasn't revenge, but it might be a lesson. Or it might be someone completely different, and Cassandra wasn't behind this at all.

Best approach: forget about Cassandra (if it were her, she'd be gleeful at thinking she'd duped him), and make whoever was behind this question the legality of their own proceedings until they convinced themselves to let him go.

"A tribunal?" he repeated. "So, I get a lawyer?"

"What law do immortals follow?"

Survival of the quickest. And if you weren't quick, you were dead and your quickening was gone. "I get a champion?" he tried next.

"There will be no fighting."

Methos marshaled his patience. "I don't understand. How does this work?"

"Tell the truth."

They'd said that before. "And then…?"

"Then we decide."

Wonderful. He could stay alive, as long as he pleased them. "What gives you the right—"

"The Game," the voice interrupted. "The Game that favors those with might."

It was tradition. A bloody stupid tradition, but who was he to argue with millennia of practice?

"Might does not make right," the voice went on, "and no one should be forced to play."

Methos resisted the urge to clap in slow and sarcastic rhythm. It sounded lovely, but it wouldn't work. People wanted the Prize, and they liked the quickenings. They wouldn't stop. But it wasn't wise to argue with your captors. Time for another approach.

"I've often said exactly the same thing!" Methos said. "The beheading and the one-on-one… it never made sense, and it's not fair. And trial by combat, I mean, that's positively medieval." Older than that, actually, but no reason to bring age into this. "But with your tribunal, now we have police. Or perhaps. .. referees?"

"As you like."

"Referees for the game," he said with enthusiasm. Duncan needed a vacation, after all. "Have you been doing this long? I've never heard of you before."

"We are here now."

Not long then. Not organized anyway. Methos suspected that some of the individuals responsible for the "shoot then behead" cases that Duncan had been worried about had coalesced into this tribunal. Had they met each other by accident? Or had someone with a penchant for organizing groups of women who would "make the world a better place" given them a hand?

But it was clear they didn't want to talk about that, so he went back to the Game. "Can you stop it completely?" he asked with mounting excitement. "Can you stop the Game?"

"What do you think?"

"Well…" Now to impress them with his thoughtfulness. "It won't be easy. Some people really like the quickenings."

"Do you?"

"No," he said quickly, but that wasn't truthful, and (more importantly) it wasn't believable. "I mean … a quickening is intense and exhilarating, but I don't like to kill, and I don't want the Prize. I don't even like to fight!"

"How many quickenings have you taken?"

"Three," he answered promptly, as if the number were burned into his brain. Actually, he'd lost count long ago. "I've been really lucky. They came after me, and I just did what I could to survive. But I don't want to play the Game." That was true. "You don't need to 'remove me for unnecessary roughness'." Not during this millennium, anyway.

"Is James Coulsen your real name?" the voice asked.

"It's what I'm called now. So, real as any, I suppose."

"We would like to know more about you, and the person called 'Mr. Coulsen' seems to have existed for only a few years. What other names have you used?"

Methos recited a few from the last half century, which was safe enough. He'd been quite respectable lately. Time to protest his innocence again. "I did not kill that woman in the alley," he said, with a rare combination of complete earnestness and complete truthfulness.

After a very long pause, the voice said: "This tribunal agrees that you did not kill her."

"Oh, that's…" What was a word that would convey gratitude and relief and yet the conviction that it could not possibly have gone any other way. Ah, to hell with it. "That's excellent. Thank you. Can I have my things now, please? I really need to get back to work."

"However," the mechanical voice went on, "this court finds that that further investigation is warranted."

"But … you just agreed that I didn't kill her." Bewilderment and consternation rang clear in his voice. "What exactly am I on trial for?"

"Your life."

Bloody hell.

* * *

><p><strong>The MacLeod Farm, Sunday morning<strong>

* * *

><p>The next morning, Graham handed Connor a box with the pair of paintings, a family picture album, a worn horseshoe, three wooden mixing spoons, and a book of poetry that bore the inscription, "Love is for poets" above Rachel's name.<p>

"Dad didn't leave you any money or anything of real value," Graham said, sounding apologetic. "Just some mementos."

"They're fine," Connor replied. They were priceless.

"It's Sunday, so Fila and her parents and Coby and Neill go into town," Graham said next. "Are you a church-goer?"

"Not really."

"Me, either. Ready to plant more potatoes?" They went out into the fine soft rain. Lunch was soup again, a meal that filled the belly and stretched the available food. After, Connor took the children outside and told them stories as they weeded the garden, and then they played a game of making faces at each other, each more horrible than the last, until Ian and Orla were giggling helplessly on the ground.

Alea had come out from the kitchen to watch. "You're good with them," she said when Connor joined her near the doorway. "And those two can be a real handful, especially when they're together."

Connor had no doubt of that, seeing as "those two" were already busy dumping dirt on each others' feet. "I've taken care of twins," he explained.

"I wanted twins," Alea said. "I'm still hoping Orla could have a little brother or sister."

"That would be good," Connor agreed.

Alea turned slowly to him, her lovely eyes direct and wide. "Would you like to help?" Her voice was husky, and the hand she placed upon his was warm.

Connor realized, too late, that she wasn't talking about babysitting. "Alea…" He pulled his hand back. "I can't." In this, he could tell her the truth. "I'm sterile."

"Oh," his granddaughter said, transparently disappointed. "I'm sorry."

"Me, too." Yet for once in his life, he was grateful for it, and the convenient excuse it gave.

But her hand wandered back to his, and her smile returned. "We could still—"

"No," he said immediately.

Alea froze, this time blinking in surprise and some hurt. "I thought…" She drew her dignity about her like a cloak. "Yesterday in the kitchen, you seemed glad to see me."

"I was," Connor protested. "I am. But … we're kin."

"Only in name. You're my Great-Aunt Rachel's third cousin four times removed or twice fourth or something, and anyway, she was adopted, plus Mom's biological dad was some stranger. Graham –and Ian now—carry the MacLeod name, but none of us has any blood connection there."

Connor had been born as a MacLeod, lived as one, and died as one. He'd shouted that name in battle and carved it into tombstones and finally claimed it again for his own. But as for bloodlines… "True," Connor admitted.

"Which means you and I aren't related," Alea summed up.

"It's … not appropriate," he told her.

"Because you were friends with my mother?"

"Alea—"

"I'm not fifteen now, Mike," she interrupted. "The age difference isn't that much anymore."

Oh, but it was.

"I've known you since I was eight, and you look as young as Graham." Alea tilted her head, just like Sara used to do. "How old are you, Mike?"

He could tell her. He could pull out the portrait and other family pictures, explain immortality, tell her his name and call her granddaughter, call Will and Graham grandsons. He could live here, in his own house on his own land, watching Orla and Ian grow up, and have a family again. Maybe he could—

"You must be more than thirty," Alea said, still digging, as stubborn and curious as Sara and Alex had been.

But she wasn't them, and he couldn't tell her who he was without telling Will and Graham, and then probably Fila would know, and most likely her parents, too. A secret known by more than one is no secret at all. Connor had to lie, and he had to convince her to leave him alone. "It's not appropriate because I'm involved with someone." Sort of. He and Chelle did have a date scheduled for next year.

"Seriously?" Alea asked.

That was a more a statement of disbelief than a question about that status of his relationship, but Connor answered quietly, "I'm hoping so. If she'll have me."

"Oh." Alea finally backed down. "I'm glad for you." She sounded sincere. "I suppose it has been almost four years since Sister Laina died." She added quietly, "And Mom."

They were both silent then, remembering. "Did they ever find out?" Connor asked. "Who set the bomb?"

"A suicide bomber. He worked at the hotel."

That explained access, but not motive. "What group was he with?"

She shrugged. "None. He had been a member of Threeco—that group for ecology, economy, equality—but they'd asked him to leave years before. Too radical, even for them. His target was the bankers, not Phinyx."

A solitary madman, killed by his own devices, with no one left to blame. How convenient. Connor decided he'd find Erika and get the real story later.

Alea stretched up and kissed his cheek, then tossed her hair back and smiled at him. "I really am glad for you Mike. I just wish I had better timing."

"Sorry," he muttered, with a shrug and an apologetic smile.

"I'll warn off Fila for you," she said next.

"Fila?" Connor repeated blankly.

"Ian needs a little brother or a sister, too."

"What about Graham?"

"They're together, yes, but her cycles started over a year ago, and she hasn't gotten pregnant yet. And since we all live together, Fila doesn't want to ask Coby or Neill or Will, even though all the girls say Will's a lucky charm."

Connor stopped himself from asking "He's magically delicious?" and tried to banish the image of a prancing leprechaun yammering on about hearts, moons, stars, and clovers. John had liked the advertisement and eaten that breakfast cereal for years. He'd introduced Sara and Colin to it, too, and they'd been distraught when the cereal disappeared from stores in the UK.

"Will's started three children so far," Alea was explaining, "four if Betta carries to term, and she's already past the first trimester, so that's good. She and her sweetheart are planning to get married this summer."

"And her sweetheart knows? About the baby?"

"Well, of course Jamie knows. He's the one who asked Will for help."

"Oh," Connor managed to say. The sterility plague and the volcano had turned marriage inside out and upside down.

"Speak of the devil," Alea said next, for Will was returning, bearing a large wheel of cheese, with Coby and Neill walking by his side.

"Is that your stud fee now?" Coby was teasing. "A wee bit of cheese?"

Will blushed but answered stoutly, "Nothing wee about it." He set it on a garden chair and came over, grinning ear to ear. "Sensei Mike!"

"Will," Connor replied, grinning, too. Like Graham, Will had gone from boy to man. He was taller than Connor by half a hand-span. They shook hands, and Connor found that Will was also plenty strong. "You look good," Connor said, giving the young man a judicious glance and then an approving nod. "Still doing kata?"

"Almost every day," Will assured him then started grinning again. "Want to see?"

"Sure," Connor replied, and there on the lawn next to the garden, the two of them went through a sequence, side by side. Alea soon joined them, and Ian and Orla left their pile of dirt and came too, following along with tiny footsteps and earnest eyes.

Sara and Colin had started at about that age, and John, too. Rachel had been a bit older when Connor had started to teach her, in that old gym next to the bowling alley. They would go out for ice cream afterwards and then walk home. A hundred years ago.

"Sensei, please excuse me," Will began, "I'm confused. I thought it was the right foot here?"

"So it is," Connor agreed, focusing again on the moves. "I'm the one who is confused. Thank you, Will." After the final bow, he explained, "Sorry, I was watching the little ones," and they all turned to watch as Ian and Orla practiced bowing to each other.

"Cute," Alea said fondly.

"All kids are," Will said, smiling now.

Connor couldn't fathom Will's casualness. "Don't you miss your own?"

Will seemed puzzled by the question. "Ian and Orla are my own."

"You mean your own kin?" Connor said.

"I mean my own children."

"I asked Will to be father to Orla," Alea explained. "And we're both godparents to Ian, just as Graham and Fila are godparents to Orla."

"I've been a donor three times," Will said. "But those children aren't mine; they're gifts. They have parents of their own."

"I see," Connor said, still trying to adjust. His children had all been "gifts" too, and that was great, but he had never been the one to give a child away. He wasn't sure he could.

"Can we do more later, Sensei Mike?" Will asked. "Philippa will be wanting this cheese. And I'm hungry."

"Of course," Connor said, and then Ian and Orla decided they were hungry, too, and Alea took them back inside.

Connor went to restack a section of the garden's rock wall, where a small gap was developing. Winter frosts took their toll. He started taking the stones down, setting them in order on the ground. After a few minutes, Graham came from the house to help.

"I've forgotten to do this," Graham said, taking a rock from Connor's hands. "My father used to check the wall each spring. Winter frosts take their toll, he'd say."

Connor took a deep breath before wrestling a rock free of the wall. "Is that enough?" he asked, stepping back from the wall and letting Graham take charge.

"A bit more on the right side," Graham said and they took down two more. Then Connor and Graham rebuilt the garden wall, stone by stone. "Did my father teach you stone stacking?" Graham asked, starting on the final course.

It had been the other way around. "Yes," Connor lied. "Fishing streams have a lot of rocks to practice with."

Graham laughed. "That's how he said his father taught him."

"And taught you, too," Connor said, for he and Graham had spent many happy hours building dams in streams and creating walls and faerie forts.

But Graham shook his head. "I don't remember my grandfather. My mother said he lived here for a bit, when I was little, but I was only five when he died at sea."

Connor took his time in laying a capstone atop the wall. "I'm sorry."

Graham shrugged. "We all have our time. Someday I'll teach Ian to rebuild this wall, and I hope he'll teach his children." He wedged the final capstone into place and gave it a pat. "This wall will outlast us all."

"Let's hope so," Philippa said, coming through the garden with an egg-basket on her arm. "It's nicely done."

"It'll last for a while," Graham agreed. Then he clapped Connor lightly on the shoulder, a silent thank-you, and went back to the house.

Philippa stayed, watching him. "You seem to be a man of many skills, Mr. Auden," she noted. "Did you grow up on a farm?"

"Yes," Connor answered. "And please, call me Mike."

She nodded and tugged her coat a bit tighter against the wind. "Ian and Orla were quite taken with the death poukah."

"My grandmother told me that story."

Her smile was fleeting. "So did mine. But in her story, poukah have teeth." She tilted her head to one side and asked, "The children's talents don't bother you, Mike?"

Connor shrugged. "I've known others, and Sara and Colin had dreams. Seems it runs in the family."

"So it does," Philippa agreed. "My grandmother had the sight, so Ian gets it from both sides. It's a pity we don't know anything about Orla's bio-father. Family is so important, don't you think?"

This close to the house, Connor could read the name MacLeod carved into the stone at the door, a home-steading gift from Duncan decades ago. "I do," Connor agreed.

She faced him straight on, the fine wrinkles around her eyes deepened with concern. "Then please understand that when I say this, I'm thinking of the family first. I've a bit of the sight myself, and I see a red mist all about you, Mike. Violence and death are following you."

They always were.

"That doesn't surprise you," Philippa observed, watching him closely.

"No," he had to admit.

"You're a good worker, Mike, and you're kin. And I do like you. When Alea and Fila ask you to give them children, I've no quarrel with that, but with Ian and Orla—and, God willing, more—to protect here, I'm afraid I must tell that I hope you're not intending to stay."

The slow breath Connor pulled in was a swirl of hot anger and hurt, carried by the familiar cool air of that tasted of home: the grass and the dirt, the water of the loch and the mist in the air, the smoke and the dusty stone. But he let the air out and unclenched his hands, letting the anger go, too. She was right. The Highlands were home, but he had no place here now.

"This was just a visit," he told her. He couldn't add the reassuring smile. "I'm leaving in the morning."

* * *

><p>Connor announced his plans at dinner. There was surprise and regret, and the children asked for another story before he left, but no one pressed him to stay. That night he slept on the couch downstairs, since Will had returned and the house was full.<p>

Connor woke before dawn, packed his things, then wandered about the quiet rooms, touching old furniture, remembering old times. The cat appeared from nowhere and stared at him with solemn eyes. "Hey, Tiger," Connor greeted her, and she led the way to her food bowl then waited with imperial aplomb.

While he was getting the cat food, Orla appeared in the kitchen doorway, her red curls in wild disarray, her pajamas a riot of purple and orange. "Good morning," he said.

"Good morning." She came in and climbed up on a chair. "Can you tell me another story before you go?"

Over bowls of oatmeal, he told her the tale of the man who stepped into the faerie realm and danced with the queen one fine evening in May. But when he came back home the next morning, everything and everyone he knew was gone. For in that one night in the faerie realm, many years had gone by. Someone else lived on his farm, trees had been cut down, and the buildings in the town were new. Only the mountains and the loch and the sky were the same.

"The flowers could be the same," Orla pointed out. "They grow every year."

"That they do," Connor agreed.

"Did he go back to the faerie queen?" she asked.

"No, that door opens only twice a year, and it's not easy to find."

"Then where did he go?"

"Why, he went wandering," Connor replied lightly. "Out across the hills."

"Did he find a new place to live?"

Why not give this story a happy ending? "After a while."

"Good." She went back to eating her oatmeal. While he was rinsing the dishes, she tugged on his pant-leg. "When you come back here," Orla announced, looking up at him with Sara's eyes, "I'll see you on the daffodil hill." When Connor squatted down to face her, she added, "I'll be old then."

The sight wasn't to be argued with. "I'll look for you, Orla," he promised then leaned forward and kissed her on the forehead, as his mother had done for him when they had said farewell, centuries ago. Orla kissed his forehead in turn, the touch of her lips butterfly light, then gathered up her cat and went back upstairs to bed.

Connor finished neatening the kitchen. Before he left, he lay on his back under the table and took out his knife. Next to the initials that Sara and Colin had made, he carved his own name: Connor MacLeod.

* * *

><p><strong>The Inquisition<strong>

* * *

><p>Time dragged on. Methos ate, he exercised, he read, he slept. He read and slept again. But three days after the conversation, he woke in complete darkness once again. His mouth was dry and his lips had that bitter taste. He'd been either drugged or dead when they moved him to this room. He was face down, lying on a table of unknown height, and he couldn't roll over. Straps encircled his wrists and ankles, a belt ran around his waist, and restraints kept him from turning his head. The back of his neck felt disturbingly bare.<p>

This was not good.

At least he still had clothes on, and the room wasn't freezing. He didn't have much time to spend reviewing the situation, however. The mechanical voice, somewhere off to his right, said, "Good morning, Mr. Coulsen."

"Not from where I'm strapped down, it isn't." He managed to keep the tone light.

"This would not be necessary if you had told us the truth."

In his case, he was fairly certain that the truth would not have set him free. "We're immortal," he said, reminding them of that shared bond. "We lie to survive. It becomes a habit."

"We understand that. Yet now, you would be well advised to be honest."

Definitely not good.

"Do you see the blue light in front of you?"

"Yes." A small circle of pale blue had appeared. With no reference points, he couldn't tell how far away it was.

"Tell the truth, it stays lit," the voice explained. "Lie, and it goes out. Would you like a demonstration? You can lie as much as you like while you test it."

Permission to lie. How generous. But he needed to know more, so he rattled off a string of sentences, from the mundanely true (he liked chocolate cake) to the blatantly false (he was the Queen of Sheba). It kept pace, flipping off and on. But any of those could be easily verified, so he said some more trivial things that no one but he would know. The light was never wrong.

"How do you do that?" he asked, genuinely curious, because he'd beaten lie detectors before.

"It is a truth-teller."

"Not helpful," he pointed out.

"Not meant to be," came the quick rejoinder.

This one was sharp. Probably a specialist, brought in for his interrogation.

"Has the truth-teller's accuracy been demonstrated to your satisfaction?" the voice said.

"So far," he admitted. "What happens if I lie?"

"It will not be pleasant. Would you like a demonstration of that?" it offered.

Methos suppressed a shudder as imagination and memories supplied examples of unpleasantness. "No."

"Just tell the truth, Mr. Coulsen. Keep the light blue."

Right. The blue light. The restraints. The lack of weapons. The back of his neck being bare. Fuck.

"Are any of the names you gave us your birth name?" the voice asked.

"No."

"What is your birth name?"

"I don't know. I'm an orphan, like you." Always try to build a connection.

"Where were you born?"

Methos answered honestly. "I don't know."

"Where was your first death?"

"I don't know. There were trees," he added, trying to be helpful, then added, "Sorry."

"How old are you?"

Ah, yes. He was surprised it had taken them this long to ask. "I don't know." He waited for a follow-up question to that, but perhaps the inquisitrix had a list, for the voice went on.

"Have you ever been married?"

Finally, something he could answer. The inquisitrix was doubtless getting irritated with him. "Yes."

"Have you ever reared children?"

"Yes." Time to make himself sympathetic. "Nearly a hundred. Most of my wives were widows with children of their own."

"How many wives?"

This one, he actually knew the answer to. He could lie and face "unpleasantness" or he could tell the truth and build that bond of trust. "Sixty-nine."

That answer gave the voice pause. "Are you more than a thousand years old?"

"Yes."

"More than two?"

It seemed the inquisitrix have never heard of a search algorithm. "Yes," he admitted then set to work forestalling the inevitable questions. "As I told you, I don't know exactly how old. I remember when Rome ruled the world, but the first time I went to Egypt, the pyramids were already there." Not very old, but there. Now for more truth, carefully told. "I've been many different people in those years, done many things. Done things I wish I hadn't. I have killed and raped and tortured. I've helped burn cities to the ground and I've sold people as slaves. I was in an army, and that's what soldiers did, so that's what I did." The light hadn't flickered at all.

Methos took a deep breath and went on. "But some years, I was the farmer. I was the one killed. I have been raped; I have been tortured. I have watched my family burn alive, and I've seen my wife and children sold as slaves, and I have been a slave myself.

"I've also been a monk, a scholar, a doctor, and an engineer. I'm not the man I was thousands of years ago." Below, the single pale light burned blue. Methos closed his eyes in relief, glad to have tap-danced his way through that minefield of a confession.

"We appreciate your candor, Mr. Coulsen."

Oh, goodie.

"We do have a few more questions."

Of course they did. Methos sighed.

"How many mortals have you killed?"

He'd once boasted to Duncan that he'd killed ten thousand. The real number was higher, but Methos didn't know what it was, so again, he told the truth. "I don't know."

"When did you last kill a mortal?"

"Ah…1999. Or maybe it was 1998. In Paris." An explanation was clearly in order. "He was about to shoot someone."

"How many heads have you taken?'

The Horsemen used to keep count, as a competition, but Methos hadn't bothered since then. "I don't know."

"When did you last take an immortal's head?"

Methos hadn't taken Grace's head, even if he had received her quickening. Before that… nothing in Canada, nothing while he was trapped in the ice, nothing while he was married to Marika… Ah, yes. That road trip in France with Joe Dawson. "About fifty years ago," Methos answered then volunteered more. "His name was Morgan Walker. He was threatening some mortal friends of mine."

"Did you enjoy it?" the voice asked.

"I don't like to fight."

"Do you like to kill?"

Methos took a deep breath. "No." Beneath him, the little blue disappeared. "Damn," Methos swore softly. He'd hoped…

The voice was silent, and the pain began. The intolerable itching started in his hands and feet, and his muscles contracted, pulling fingers and toes into claws. The itch became heat became burning, slicing its way up past wrists and ankles into his arms and legs, like red hot splinters being driven along the bone, scraping closer to his heart with every shuddering beat.

Abruptly, at his shoulders and his hips, it stopped and then was gone, and he was left to twitch all over and to attempt to unclench his fingers and toes. And to try to remember how to breathe. If that nerve induction wave had reached his heart, he'd have died.

"We did advise you to speak the truth," the voice said. "Lying leads to pain. You would do well to remember that."

"Don't you mean: 'Learn this lesson well'?" he shot back, but that got no response. If Cassandra were listening, she was being remarkably restrained.

"Mr. Coulsen, in view of what you enjoy, we trust you will understand our hesitation in releasing you."

"Look," he began, scrambling to salvage what he could and convince them to let him keep his head, "part of me likes to kill, yes. We all do. People—mortal and immortal alike—are bloody murderers. If we live long enough, we find that out. You know that," he said with matter-of-fact persuasion, as he might share a truth with a well-trusted companion whom he knew would understand.

"I do," the voice agreed.

Thank the gods. At least the Tribunal wasn't all young idealists with no experience. "It's what we are, sometimes what we have to be," Methos said, hammering that point home. "But I don't kill for fun—"

"Not anymore," the voice broke in.

"Not anymore," he agreed. "I avoid killing, when I can." He had one more truth to share: "I have changed."

He held his breath, and the light stayed blessedly blue.

* * *

><p><strong>The Highlands<strong>

* * *

><p>Connor couldn't quite remember how it had happened. There had been a bar, crowded and noisy. There had been a bottle (maybe two) of whisky, sharp with the taste of smoke and the lick of fire, served by a waitress with tired eyes and a pretty smile, and an ex-boyfriend who wouldn't leave her alone. Connor had stepped in, and there had been words, fierce and bitter, a young man's anger gone astray. Then the fighting began.<p>

He remembered the first blow (an angry punch easily deflected) but not the second or the third. Or the last. He did remember catching a glimpse of the bartender scooping up the darts and hiding them away, before Connor ducked to avoid the stool being smashed against the wall as others joined the fray. There was shattering glass, and yells and shouts and grunts of pain, and above all the fierce bloody joy of fighting in a classic barroom brawl. Connor waded into the thick of it, and soon his knuckles were smeared with red.

Somewhere, a woman started screaming, over and over, high and shrill, and hands grabbed at his arms. Connor broke a wrist and whirled, shoving someone else to the floor, then abruptly he was alone within a circle of people, all staring at him.

The bar door opened, and cold air swirled across the floor as a gray-haired woman came into the room. A man caught her by the arm, saying, "Ilene, don't."

"But—"

"John is dead."

Connor knew that. Colin was dead, too. So were Sara and Rachel and Anne and Brenda and Alex and Heather. They all died.

The waitress asked him, "Why?"

Connor answered simply, "Everyone dies." He couldn't stop that. He'd tried. He looked into her pretty eyes, glimmering with tears, and the brutal truth sliced home. "But not me."

"No," Ilene was moaning, and she dropped to her knees next to a body on the floor, then said it again and again, that one word blending into a single, anguished scream. People turned their faces away. Her grief was too naked to be borne. Finally, the man knelt and pulled her closer, and Ilene fell weeping against him, quiet now.

"Why?" the waitress asked Connor again. "Why did you kill John?"

"What?" Connor asked then shook his head with an incredulous laugh.

"Jesus," a man in the corner swore in disgust. "The murdering bastard's laughing again."

Connor turned, but only part way, because there were people all around him and no one had his back, and protested, "I didn't ki—"

"Show him," the waitress ordered, and with eerie silence, people stepped aside. The waitress's ex-boyfriend lay crumpled on the floor, his face bloody, his body very still. Ilene was still weeping by his side.

Connor didn't remember hitting the boy, not after that first punch. It had been a free-for-all. Except … wait, yes, he had hit him again. And again.

Now there was blood on his hands, and a ring of accusers, and a cold, creeping sickness in his heart. Philippa had been right, but the violence and death hadn't been following him; he'd been carrying them with him all along. Within him.

Just as Cassandra had warned.

"Holy Mother," Connor breathed, but couldn't finish the prayer. Ilene was staring at him, eyes red with tears and fierce with hate, and Connor knew why: he'd just killed her son with his bare hands for no reason at all. "I'm sorry," he told her, a useless whisper of an apology.

"Go to hell," she spat back.

He already had. He had the devil in him. Another woman had told him so, long before, in another room full of silent people with angry eyes. His laugh this time was of despair, for he carried hell within him, too.

A broken chair leg slammed against the back of his head, and a red mist filled his eyes as he stumbled and nearly went down. "Laugh, will you?" someone growled, and this time the chair smashed into his right knee. His leg buckled, and a brutal fist found his head before he hit the floor. More fists came, and heavy boots, and curses raining down. Connor didn't fight back. He didn't defend himself either.

This was pain he deserved.

* * *

><p><strong><em>The Cell - Waiting<em>**

* * *

><p>Methos woke up in his cell. They'd tucked him in again.<p>

He stretched, arms and legs reaching to the four corners of the room, fingers and toes blissfully uncurled, then rolled over and buried his face in his arms. As interrogations went, that had been fairly civilized. On the one hand, that truth-teller meant they didn't bother inflicting pain unless you lied. On the other hand, the truth-teller meant they knew exactly when you lied.

Methos didn't like other people being in his head. And he didn't like being here.

He rolled over onto his back, put his hands behind his head, and stared at the gently glowing ceiling. As prisons went, this was remarkably civilized. But it was still a prison. Methos contemplated ways he might escape.

Eventually, food arrived. As usual, he ate, read on the ceiling vidscreen of the doings of the world outside, exercised, washed, and then lay down again. Time to select the evening's entertainment. That movie about Hawkeye and Black Widow's adventure in Budapest? A documentary on the mathematics of origami? Perhaps a novel: _Crime and Punishment._

Perhaps not.

Methos didn't want to like to kill, but he did. Half a century ago, Methos had taken four heads in four years, and he'd also killed a few mortals during that time. Those killings had been too many, too frequent … too tempting.

He'd managed well enough after he'd taken Kristin's head, but then Kronos had come, calling forth the wolf within. Methos had held on grimly, even when Silas had died at his hand, but the next night there'd been that immortal challenge in a muddy field, and the wolf ate him alive.

Methos had immediately gone to holy ground, quiet and safe and serene, but soon he'd been back with Duncan and then Joe, those Boy Scouts who led such very interesting lives, and there had been plenty of good reasons to kill.

The wolf didn't need a reason, other than it was fun.

"Down, boy," Methos murmured then flipped a hand at the vidscreen to turn it on.

He was halfway through a movie about political intrigues between improbable tribes of feral house-cats when an immortal came near, the movie went dark, and the intercom turned on. Methos didn't bother to sit up. The time for chit-chat was done. "Tell me," Methos said, "when your tribunal condemns someone, are you the executioner?"

"No."

"Do you lot take turns? Roll dice to see who gets the quickening?" He waited and got nothing. "A volunteer then? Someone who thinks killing is fun?" The voice didn't answer, and Methos asked curiously, "Do you bring in a mortal to take the head?" Still no answer. "If you're not here to talk, I'd like the movie back on," Methos said.

"I am here to talk," the voice said. "I am not here to answer questions."

"Ah, yes," Methos drawled. "That's my job." It was also, he reminded himself, his ticket out. "What else can I say?" he asked, resolving to be helpful and cheerful. "I told you that I've changed, and you know it's true; your light stayed on. I'm not a headhunter; I'm just trying to survive."

"It is true that you believe you have changed," the voice admitted. "But people can delude themselves in many ways, especially when it comes to addictions. Can anyone vouch for you? Does anyone else believe this about you?"

Joe had, bless his heart, but he'd been dead for thirty years. Duncan did, and Cassandra did, too. Mostly. Amanda and Serena and Elena would probably all vouch for him, though they didn't know all of what he'd been. But it didn't matter; Methos wasn't about to name names. "Since you have been such 'hospitable' hosts," Methos replied, "I trust you will understand my hesitation in telling you the names of my friends."

"We are not vindictive or unreasonable."

No one was, at least in their own mind. "How many immortals has your tribunal condemned to die?" Methos asked. The voice didn't answer, of course. It wasn't here to answer his questions. But he could give them a reason to question themselves. "What's your kill rate? Fifty percent? Seventy-five?" He waited a beat. "Or do you kill them all?"

"We kill only when necessary," the voice answered.

Methos muttered, "I've heard that before," and then there was a click and his movie came back on.

The next morning during breakfast, the voice informed him: "This tribunal recommends you be held, pending further investigation."

"Held how long?" Methos demanded, but there was no answer, and the immortal was gone. He stared at his bread-bowl grimly. Perhaps he should start rereading _One Hundred Years of Solitude._

* * *

><p><strong><em>The Water<em>**

* * *

><p>Connor revived in the water, half-beached on a stony shore, while frigid waves lapped at his thighs and shoved his feet to and fro. He gagged and coughed, spewing up bitter water and tasting fresh blood. Just that exhausted him, but his body was shivering with cold, so he forced himself to move. Using his elbows, he dragged himself forward, scraping bare flesh across sharp rocks and slimy seaweed, then collapsed on the beach again. Cold, dank fingers still clutched at his heels, and the waves sounded close behind him, relentless, the dark heartbeat of the loch.<p>

It could still drag him under. It could pull him down, into the green-dark lair of the water horse, with its garden of skulls, carefully tended, and the gently swaying flowers that once had been maidens' long hair. Those tresses, black or golden or brown or copper-red, flowed upward, ever searching, and should a man enter those black waters, the tendrils would softly circle a wrist or an ankle, twining tighter, pulling down. Down to the silent sunless garden, the dead all laid out in rows, never to return, while the dark heartbeat of the loch went ceaselessly on.

So his grandmother had told him, many years ago: the dead never return. But Connor had returned, many times. The water horse took him for rides, but it never took him home.

He'd died in the bar, with the back of his skull staved in. The vengeful beating had gone too far. He'd been dead while they carried him out and then stripped him, for he had no memories until he woke up naked in a fishing boat in the middle of the loch with two very surprised men.

"God almighty!" the thin one exclaimed, his eyes showing white-rimmed with fear.

The other fellow had better reaction time. "Die, you murdering bastard," he growled, grabbing a board and smashing Connor on the side of the head with it, so that Connor fell backwards, dizzy from the blow and half-blind from the dried blood in his eyes.

"Remember in the bar, Alan?" the thin one asked urgently. "He said everybody died, except him."

"Everybody dies, Charlie," came the grim promise, with a fear fueled to viciousness, and the board came whistling for Connor's head again.

Connor managed to get his arm up for protection, but his ulna cracked at the blow. Connor grunted with pain and kicked out, his heel connecting solidly with Alan's ankle, and the next blow went sideways, slapping into the gunwale. Connor was scrambling to get to his feet when Charlie punched him in the nose with a metal bar, and then Alan came back and swung again.

The protruding nail dug in deep then raked sideways, yanking on Connor's left eye. There was a pop, surprisingly loud, and then a rip of white-hot pain.

"Jesus," Alan said in disgust.

Hot fluid was gushing down Connor's cheek and cold air was where cold shouldn't ought to be. He couldn't stop his screams, even as he was frantically feeling around with his good hand, hoping to find his eye.

"Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!" Charlie was yelling, and a stun gun burst blazed along Connor's ribs and up under his heart.

Jesus God almighty, he'd been shot with his own damn gun. Every single muscle in Connor's body clamped down tight and twisted, while his fingers knotted into claws. A pool of blood gathered in one cheek from his bitten tongue, but he couldn't unclench his jaw or swallow or even move. His eyelids fluttered over empty air.

"Get rid of him!" Charlie was babbling. "We have to get rid of him now!"

"Shut up," Alan ordered. "Calm down. We'll burn his clothes and the current will carry him away."

"No," Connor tried to say, but he was thick-tongued and helpless, and rough hands heaved him over the side.

* * *

><p>He'd drowned, and then he'd woken, and then he'd drowned again. The water was always icy cold. Eventually, he'd washed up here, bloody and half-blind, with death at his heels and hell following close behind, a murdering bastard who had the devil in him.<p>

Rain fell, pinpricks of cold on naked skin. His body started to shudder, and Connor curled into a ball, head to knees, arms close to his sides, hiding his face from the world.

* * *

><p><em>To be continued in "The Hunters", wherein Cassandra and Duncan and Chelle go looking for their friends<em>


	28. The Hunters

**THE HUNTERS**

* * *

><p><strong>Dartmoor, England 2052<strong>

* * *

><p>Back in April, when Methos wrote to say he would visit in the autumn, Duncan had begun wondering when his friend would appear. September was much too soon; Methos didn't do eager. Sure enough, the long days of an English summer gave way to the earlier nights of autumn with no knock on the door. October was possible, if only to surprise by promptness, but Methos didn't show. On Guy Fawkes Day in early November, Duncan found himself looking at every masked man, but they were strangers all.<p>

Duncan stood and watched the village bonfire burn as the night wore on. When the flames were down to ash and glowing coals, he crossed the grassy fields and went home. The bottle he'd bought was still in the cupboard, waiting. The house was quiet and dark … and lonely.

But Methos would visit soon, and this time maybe stay a while. The village had a decent inn, and Duncan had scouted out some horses at a nearby stable for them to ride. They could spar, too, and get in some good sword-work; Duncan's place was at the end of a long private lane. When it rained, they could play chess or argue, just for fun, or sit by the fire and read. In the evenings they could go out for a beer. Or maybe stay in. Duncan had fixed up the other bedroom, just in case.

And his own bed was quite comfortable, too, he noted as he got under the covers. Plenty of options, plenty of space. No pressure, no expectations. But not too standoffish. Just … a heartfelt invitation, then letting things take their course, to see if their friendship might "put on Love's wings".

* * *

><p>The chill days went by and the darkness grew, and still there was no word, but Duncan didn't worry. Methos wasn't above enjoying a bit of payback, and Duncan had canceled on him twice before. His birthday, Duncan decided, December twenty-first, the very last night of autumn and the first day of winter. Methos would appear.<p>

But he didn't. Nor on Christmas. Duncan decided it was time to find out why. He called and got no signal. V-mails went unviewed; paper letters go no response. Duncan hired a courier from the Iris company to hand-deliver a message to James Coulsen, but it came back with apologies and all fees returned, marked "Addressee Not Found." So Duncan traveled to India, arriving just before the spring rains. By chatting with a young mathematician at a coffee bar, he found that no one had seen James for an entire year.

"It was quite sudden," she said. "A family emergency." She leaned forward to confide, "Though I heard he was in love, and her family didn't like him, so they had to elope."

"True love indeed," Duncan said, remembering when Methos been smitten with Alexa. Within a week of their first meeting, the two of them had gone off together to tour the world. "He just left all his things at his desk?"

"No," she said, "a few days after James stopped coming to work, he sent Raj a text message and asked that his things be sent to his flat. I helped Raj box them up."

When Duncan talked to the neighbors, he found that Methos's flat had been cleaned out a year ago. Disappearing was standard operating procedure for Methos, Duncan knew, but victorious immortals often wanted more than a head and a sword. With a wallet and phone, stealing everything and sending messages or spreading rumors to fake a disappearance wasn't hard. However, neighbors hadn't seen anything, the news articles from a year ago had no records of a decapitated body, and the weather reports made no mention of odd lightning. That proved nothing; duels were often fought away from towns.

Duncan considered the options. It was possible that Methos had changed his mind about visiting and just hadn't bothered to send word, but Duncan dismissed that idea. Even if Methos had fallen in love with someone, he and Duncan had waited too long and come too far to treat each other that way. Methos might, however, be testing Duncan's interest. Maybe Duncan was supposed to come looking. Or maybe, Duncan thought grimly, Methos really had been on the run.

In any case, Duncan's next plan of action was the same. If Methos were captured or in hiding or playing games, Duncan was going to find out where.

And if Methos were dead, Duncan was going to find out who.

* * *

><p><strong>Limoges, France, Summer Solstice 2053<strong>

* * *

><p>"A letter for you, Sister Elise," the young acolyte said, as people were slowly entering the great hall for the solstice sunrise feast, their shadows long across the courtyard in the early morning sunshine.<p>

"Thank you, Sister Jane," Cassandra replied, taking the sealed envelope. It was addressed to Elise Daugherty in black pen, and another hand had written the name of their school and town.

"Your partner for today?" Tandagi asked, curious and eager.

"No," Cassandra said, for the return name on the back of the envelope was Justin Morris, and Cassandra would not take Duncan as a partner in the rites. "A friend."

"Friends can be partners," Ninian pointed out as they entered the hall, but Cassandra did not reply, and Ninian let it go.

"Oh look, the oranges!" Tandagi exclaimed, catching site of pyramids of the golden fruit on every table, a yearly treat in honor of the sun. "My mother said she ate an orange every day, even bought bags of them at the market. Can you imagine?"

Cassandra remembered picking naranjas off the tree outside the house she'd shared with Ramirez in Spain, and having to step over the overripe ones on the ground. Then they'd moved to the Highlands, where snow fell even in summer and only berries grew. A century later, Connor had brought her a gift of three oranges. She'd eaten each section with her eyes closed, savoring the juice and the flavor and the scent, and she'd saved every seed and all the scraps of orange rind to make marmalade, so she might have a taste of summer in the long winter darkness of that northern land.

This morning's feast was summer-rich and bountiful—fresh bread, fresh fruit, milk and eggs and cheese—and she was eating with sisters and friends. When the meal was over and the song of thanksgiving was done, Cassandra took a moment in a quiet corridor to read Duncan's letter, dated the week before.

"Dear Elise," it began. "I hope you are well and happy, wherever that might be. Your sisterhood won't tell me where you are, but they said they would deliver this to you. My cousin and I returned to Europe last year, after a difficult journey, and he went back home. I'm in India now, looking for an old friend once again. We were supposed to meet this past autumn in England, but no one has seen him for a year. I'm hoping you might be able to give me news of where he might be? Or if anything has happened to him? Your friend – Justin"

Cassandra folded the letter, each crease precise and sharp-edged. So, once again Methos had disappeared, and once again Duncan was chasing after him. It seemed that little game had gone too far this time; Duncan was truly worried. She would write him a note tonight. She would write to Connor, too, now that she knew where he was. She hoped they might see each other soon.

"Elise!" Tandagi called from the door. "Mother Annemarie is waiting! We're to practice the kindling ceremony one last time."

* * *

><p>The crowds had been gathering in the courtyard all morning, and the kindling ceremony started just before noon. The drumbeat grew louder as the sun neared its zenith, and on the high dais, Tandagi, dressed in a long white gown with flowing sleeves, lifted her hands and looked skyward for the invocation. Like a wave across a wheat field, the watching crowd also lifted their hands and turned their faces to the sun. Then three drum beats sounded, clear and carrying, and Tandagi turned and pulled away the dark cloth that had covered the great lens. Sunlight danced within the glass, brilliant on this beautiful summer day.<p>

Cassandra and Ninian, clad in white and gold, stepped forward to lift the lens so that it could kindle the sacred flame. Cassandra grasped the handle firmly, its black metal already warm from the sunshine. Then three more drumbeats, and they lifted the lens and carried it toward the unlit pyre, where Mother Annemarie, all in gold, waited to say prayers over the newly kindled flames.

Ninian had been the nervous one during practice, but it was Cassandra who fumbled, startled by the arrival of an immortal somewhere in the crowd.

"Elise!" Ninian hissed as the the heavy glass lens started to tip, and Mother shot Cassandra an unhappy glare. Cassandra forced down the automatic urge to flee and hastily lifted her side, her face showing only calmness. With all these people about, the other immortal might not have identified her, and even if he had, they were on holy ground. And she had a ritual to complete. Cassandra and Ninian held the disc at the proper angle, catching the sun's rays and focusing them on the waiting wood while Mother Annemarie chanted slowly, her arms lifted high.

Finally, fire blazed forth, and the watching crowd burst into cheers. As the singing began, Cassandra and Ninian placed the lens back on its pedestal, and Mother Annemarie ceremoniously covered it with the black cloth. The priestesses retired to the temple as the music went on outside.

The long chamber was cool and dim after the bright sunshine. As soon as they were inside, Mother Annemarie turned to Cassandra to ask, "Are you all right, Sister Elise?"

"Yes, Mother, just a little dizzy," Cassandra answered.

"Did you eat breakfast?"

"Yes, Mother," Cassandra said, and Ninian and Tandagi nodded in confirmation.

Mother Annemarie peered at her and demanded, "Are you pregnant?"

"No."

"Pity." She looked at the other two and asked, "Either of you?" but they both shook their heads. "Well," Mother said, "there'll be plenty of opportunity for that today. And tonight. Don't forget."

"Yes, Mother," they chorused, but as soon as she left the room, Tandagi snorted derisively. "Forget? Not likely. I've had my eye on this one fellow since New Year's."

"Only one?" Ninian teased, and Tandagi laughed as they all walked to the vestry to change clothes for the dancing that had already started outside.

But in the vestry, Jane was waiting with another message: "Sister Elise, Sister Linnea told me to tell you that a woman is waiting to see you in the visitor's parlor."

Either the immortal had indeed identified her or knew her already, or a mortal had just happened to stop by today. "Do you know her name?"

"No, Sister Linnea didn't say," Jane said and suddenly looked worried. "She was very busy."

"It's a busy day," Cassandra replied with soothing cheerfulness. She wouldn't have trusted the name anyway. She sat in front of the mirror and started to remove her veil of golden beads. As usual, it snagged on her hair.

"I saw her," Jane offered, coming over to help and untangling a bead. "She's young—"

Cassandra doubted that.

"—about my size, dark hair, pale skin."

Not Amanda or Elena then. Jane was not very tall.

"She's pretty, but she doesn't know how to dress." Jane placed the veil on its stand then carefully smoothed the netted strands.

"Probably an American," Tandagi called over from the other side of the room as she stepped out of her clothes.

Or possibly Etruscan or Iceni or some other extinct tribe. Cassandra gave up the guessing game; she'd find out soon enough.

"What's wrong with her clothes?" Ninian wanted to know.

"The shoes are ugly, and her coat is much too long."

Swords and the game wrought havoc with fashion. Amanda often complained. Cassandra shrugged off the white silk alb, heavy with embroidery, and hung it in the closet. The golden robe was next, and she was left in basic black shirt and pants and her necklace of the triple crescents: her usual attire. She wiped the stage makeup off her face then pulled on a full skirt, woven of fine cotton in crimson and cream. Next, she set to work on her hair. It was almost long enough to braid. She should cut it soon.

Cassandra left the other women to finish adjusting their outfits and went to meet her mystery guest. The bonfire still burned, tended by three acolytes, and the festival had become a street fair, with jugglers tossing balls and vendors selling food. Cassandra walked past the fiddlers and drummers and their groups of dancers in the square, letting the beat carry her, so that her skirt swirled about her ankles, and the music sang to her soul. She paused to greet the moon, a pale sliver on the eastern horizon, then finally reached the great wrought-iron doors of the gate.

The sensation of an immortal crawled up her spine as she entered the gatehouse, and she gritted her teeth while she checked the surveillance camera in the hall closet. The visitor was a stranger to her, so not a friend, but not necessarily a foe. It was time to find out. Cassandra left the closet then knocked once on the parlor door and waited a beat before entering; immortals didn't like to be surprised.

This immortal was standing near the window, facing the door. She was still wearing her too-long coat, and her hand was not far from her sword. Her gray eyes were watchful, but not wary or frightened, and she began the conversation with: "The sign on the gate said this school used to be a convent."

Not much of a greeting, Cassandra noted wryly. This definitely wasn't a new one. She confirmed, "Yes, this site has long been holy ground." A temple to Minerva had been dedicated here. "We should go see the gardens," she suggested, glancing around the room then holding the other woman's gaze as she scratched at her ear, for the visitor parlor was wired for both sight and sound. "The flowers are in bloom, and the weather is delightful."

The immortal nodded as comprehension dawned. "Yes, that sounds nice."

They were silent as Cassandra led the way through the shaded colonnade, into the inner courtyard, and down two stone steps to the beds of flowers and vegetables bordered by fruit trees. "I don't believe we've met," Cassandra said. "I'm Cassandra."

"Chelle," came the succinct reply. "Ceirdwyn and I run a school in Ohio for preimmortals, and she gave me your name."

With that for context, Cassandra now recognized her visitor from an old Watcher photo: Born Michelle Webster in 1977, watched over by Duncan, first death at age eighteen. She'd been a U.S. Marine, and she'd taken her first head in the hills of Afghanistan at the age of twenty-nine. The Watcher chronicles had stopped soon after that, but Ceirdwyn had mentioned that Chelle was a doctor and a teacher, and fiercely protective of the young.

"Welcome," Cassandra greeted Chelle with a warm smile. "Ceirdwyn's spoken of you, too, and quite highly. Please, let's sit down." She motioned to a pair of stone benches under a pear tree.

As Chelle walked, she took her coat off, but she kept it on her lap after sitting down. She leaned forward a little with hands palm up and open, a posture of supplication, before saying, "Ceirdwyn said you were good at finding things."

"I have a variety of resources," Cassandra replied. "What are you looking for?"

"Connor MacLeod."

She had not expected to hear that name. Cassandra steadfastly maintained a politely interested expression.

"We had arranged to meet last month," Chelle went on, "but he never showed up."

"For a challenge?" Cassandra asked, wondering what madness had possessed this young woman to challenge a swordsman far beyond her skill. Or was Connor the one possessed, lashing out in rage? And why on Earth would she continue to seek him? But perhaps… "Or for a training session?"

"No," Chelle said, her brows drawn together in confused surprise. "For a date."

Cassandra abruptly found herself wearing a meaningless serene half-smile, her automatic cover for surprise or fear or rage. Or for feeling stupid. It was that kind of madness that possessed Chelle, and probably Connor, too. Of course she was still seeking him.

Cassandra took a closer look at Chelle. Slim and fit, a warrior trained and blooded in battle, yet a healer, too. Tenacious and straightforward, Ceirdwyn had said, and even after two minutes, that was already clear. Young, both in body and in mind, with pale skin, dark hair and grey eyes, and very pretty indeed. Oh yes, Connor would like this one.

And obviously did.

"At first, I thought he'd just been delayed," Chelle said. "But it didn't seem like him, to not show up. Or at least send a message."

"Yes," Cassandra murmured. Connor was a man of his word. Methos wasn't, but for both of them to go missing in this way, to break a long-standing date without sending a message… Cassandra did not believe in coincidences.

"Is he dead?" Chelle asked next, helplessly blunt in her need to know.

"Not that I've heard," Cassandra answered. She hadn't sensed it, either, or dreamed of his death in decades. "When did you and Connor last have contact?"

"Over two years ago, at the school. Connor and I had agreed to meet in Paris this spring."

"Very romantic," Cassandra observed.

Chelle's smile was heartbreakingly hopeful. "Connor said he'd show me the sights. I've never been to Europe before," she explained.

Yes, Cassandra thought again, Connor would like this one very much indeed. She looked away from Chelle to the sunny courtyard, where a few pigeons mingled with the chickens. For all those glib assurances to Connor about "taking turns" in relationships, Cassandra had never shared a lover with another immortal before. Nor did she want to.

But even while they had been lovers, she knew she had never had an exclusive claim on Connor's affections. She definitely had no claim now. She wasn't surprised he'd found someone else.

Though it certainly hadn't taken him very long.

"Can you find him?" Chelle asked. "Or at least find out if he's all right?"

Cassandra breathed out and folded her hands together, the fingers calm and still. She summoned a smile and turned back to her younger rival to promise, "I'll try." Tonight, she would begin. Now, she would find out more from Chelle. "Was Duncan MacLeod at the school, too?"

"Yes, Connor and him were traveling together. I'm planning to go to the Highlands to see if they ever even got there, but Ceirdwyn said you were involved with these…," she paused to look about the courtyard before settling on a word, "…temples, and so when I saw there was a festival this week in Limoges, since I was already in Paris I thought I'd take a chance and see if you were here."

"It's good that you did," Cassandra replied then shared what she knew. "Duncan and Connor went their separate ways when they returned to Europe. Connor was going to the Highlands, but, as you say, it's possible he may not have arrived."

"So you know both the MacLeods?"

Intimately, Cassandra might have answered, but didn't. "Yes," she said simply, but now Chelle was taking a closer look at her. This truth couldn't be hidden, and Cassandra didn't want to try. "I was living in the Highlands when the MacLeods were born," she explained. "I met Duncan when he was a boy, and I met Connor soon after he became an Immortal. After his wife died, he was my student for a few months. Later, Connor and I were friends … and lovers."

"Huh," Chelle said, an inelegant grunt, and looked her over one more time, very thoroughly. "Connor never mentioned you," she said finally.

Cassandra shrugged one shoulder, saying smoothly, "He had no reason to. We're not in a relationship now."

The younger woman nodded slowly before asking, "When were you?"

"A few centuries ago and a decade ago."

"How long were you together?"

Cassandra was not in the habit of discussing her personal life, and while Chelle deserved the truth, she didn't need details.

"Right," Chelle said abruptly. "None of my business. Sorry."

"No," Cassandra said, reminding herself to be gracious. "I understand."

"I haven't been with an immortal before." Chelle's smile was rueful. "I'm not sure how it works. Gregor and Ceirdwyn act like a normal couple living together, but as far as I can tell, Amanda just shows up at Duncan's place whenever."

"Ah, Amanda," Cassandra said knowingly, and she and Chelle shared their first smile. "Amanda's 'whenever' is more haphazard than most, but visiting is not uncommon," Cassandra explained. "Connor and I had a once-a-year arrangement for a decade, back in the 1500s." Chelle blinked at the date, and Cassandra continued, "More recently, we saw each other almost daily for three years, rather like Gregor and Ceirdwyn. Such partnerships can last a year or ten, or even a century. A few immortal couples marry."

"Huh," Chelle said again then offered: "Connor and I worked together at the school for about nine months, and we got together a couple of times."

She had obviously left Connor wanting more. Share, Cassandra told herself sternly. Be glad for him, and be gracious to her.

"Look," Chelle began, learning forward again, but with her hands tight on the sword hidden beneath her coat, "this isn't about me-and-Connor or about you-and-Connor. It's about Connor. Right?"

"Yes," Cassandra agreed.

"I just want to make sure he's all right."

"So do I," Cassandra promised her. And she had questions of her own. "How was he doing?" she asked, needing to know. "When I last saw him, his daughter had just died, and then I heard that his son John was killed when Yellowstone erupted."

"Yeah, Duncan filled me in on all that. When I first met Connor, he was crazy focused on finding John, even after I told him going into the ash was a stupid idea."

"Oh, well done," Cassandra said in amused appreciation.

Chelle responded with a cheeky grin but added, "He didn't like that much."

"No," Cassandra murmured. "He wouldn't have done."

"Anyway, I saw him again a year later when Duncan and him came to the school. Connor never talked about his own kids, but Duncan said teaching the students was helping a lot."

Cassandra breathed out in relief. "Good." She should help Chelle understand him better, or as Amanda would have said: Let the poor girl know what she was in for. "In grief," Cassandra explained, "Connor can be … angry."

"Yeah." Chelle's answer was short, and her fingers were carefully stroking her jaw.

Cassandra recognized the caress of remembered pain. "He hit you," she said with sad certainty.

Chelle's head jerked up, the flare of surprise in her eyes quickly smothered into blankness. "We were in the dojo."

The explanation was quick and smooth, believable and likely. It was also a wrapping of truth around a lie, because Cassandra knew that Chelle and Connor hadn't been sparring, not by the end. "Connor and I don't spar anymore," Cassandra commented, looking away from Chelle, avoiding accusation. "We've hurt each other too often." She turned back before adding: "Especially when we're angry."

Chelle shrugged, an ostentatiously casual rejection. "It had been a bad day."

And there was the justification for the violence, the explanation for why it wasn't really that bad.

"He apologized," Chelle said, now defending the indefensible.

Of course he had. Cassandra knew those soft words, the dismayed murmurs, the gentle hand wiping away the tears and the blood. Then came the lovemaking, tender and desperately sweet, its fragile reassurance a thin scab over the unmentionable wounds.

"Twice," Chelle added.

"Is that how many times he hit you?" Cassandra asked pointedly.

That got through. Chelle flinched before looking away. "It had been a really bad day," she said. "For both of us, what with the quickenings."

"Both of you?" Cassandra asked in surprise then listened with weary sadness as Chelle told the tragic tale of a pair of child immortals and of the immortal who'd come hunting and also died at Connor's hand.

"If I hadn't brought Terah back to the school," Chelle said, "Tomas would probably still be alive. If I'd—" She bit off that word and stared at the ground, her mouth tight.

Cassandra knew this litany of guilt and self-reproach.

"Have you ever killed a child?" Chelle asked without looking up.

Cassandra looked up at the tree, its leaves a shifting pattern of sun and shade, of light and dark. "Not that way." No way was good, but to be the one to swing the blade, to take the quickening of a child… Roland had relished the slaughter of innocents, but Connor would be sickened by it, especially as it seemed he had regarded Tomas as his student, perhaps even his son. It didn't excuse what Connor had done to Chelle—nothing could—but it explained quite a bit. "Did you and Connor talk about it?"

"No, he left a week later, with Duncan." She heaved a gusty sigh then looked at Cassandra with defiant eyes. "So, like I said: bad day."

She shared Connor's penchant for understatement. It had been a horrific day of brutal acts, each death leading to the next in a twisted chain, with Chelle the last victim and Connor forging a chain of his own.

"It's not Connor's fault," Chelle said. "I was looking for trouble."

She'd been "asking for it." It was all her fault. She deserved it. Cassandra knew that mantra, too. She shuddered then took a moment to summon inner calm. "Chelle," Cassandra advised, "the next time you despise yourself, take responsibility for your own pain. Don't ask someone else to inflict it on you. It's not good for you." She leaned forward intently. "And it's even worse for them."

"We only got carried away because of the quickenings," Chelle protested.

Cassandra lifted an eyebrow. "Really."

"Of course! You know how it is."

"I do," Cassandra agreed. "So does Connor. And he knows not to spar after a quickening."

"He didn't want to. I had to ask him twice."

"So tell me," Cassandra prompted, " just why do you think he said yes?" Chelle opened her mouth then shut it again, and Cassandra went on: "We all have a taste for blood, Chelle, especially when we're angry. That taste can become hunger, and that hunger can become addiction."

She was shaking her head. "Connor isn't—"

"I have seen him, Chelle," Cassandra broke in. "No quickening. Not even an immortal. Connor beat a mortal to the ground, put him in hospital … and he was laughing as he did it."

Chelle was holding tight to her sword again. "He was laughing," Chelle admitted, her voice small, "while he was hitting me."

Cassandra closed her eyes in sick dismay. It had been a beating, then, not just a blow or two. She would still be Connor's friend, but she began to doubt if she could ever let him touch her again.

When Chelle looked up, her eyes glistened with the start of tears. "I thought it was the quickenings."

"The quickenings are certainly a large part of it," Cassandra agreed. "But not all."

"After, he apologized and told me he'd lost control. He was—" She met Cassandra's gaze then said merely, "He was sweet. He seems like a good guy."

"He is 'a good guy'," Cassandra reassured her. "He's honorable and loyal and fiercely brave. But he's also—and will always be—a warrior, and that's a dangerous road."

"Dark times," Chelle murmured.

"Exactly. So please, Chelle, I beg of you," Cassandra urged, "don't ever ask Connor to hurt you." She leaned forward, her hands open and her voice full of desperate persuasion.

"Don't tempt him that way."

* * *

><p>Cassandra saw Chelle settled in the abbey's guest house and invited her to share in an evening meal later that day. Then Cassandra finally went dancing, to celebrate the sun. Tandagi waved just before she and her long-awaited partner went to find a room.<p>

Cassandra waved in return then went to collect Chelle. As the meal ended, Cassandra made the decision to involve—and thereby trust—the other woman, thus also engendering trust in return. "Would you like to help me tonight in the search?" Cassandra asked.

"Sure," Chelle said immediately. "Though I hope it's not just reading reports."

"No, I thought you might stand guard."

Chelle sat up straighter, eyes alert. "Guard against what?"

"Anything. Everything. I'll be … in a trance while I search," she explained. "It's—"

"Are you going to reach out with your quickening to try to find him?" Chelle broke in.

Cassandra realized she was smiling again, a cover for surprise. Chelle would be even more valuable than she had supposed. Cassandra folded her napkin and set it on the table. "Yes," she said pleasantly. "Did Connor teach you how?"

"Yeah. We all tried it. Gregor and I picked it up quicker than the others. Duncan said it gave him headaches. I already tried to find Connor that way but didn't get anything. But then I can't reach more than a mile or two. What's your range?"

"It depends who I'm looking for," Cassandra answered. She'd reached Methos hundreds of miles away once, without meaning to, certainly without wanting to. She'd snapped the connection immediately, shaken to find she was bound to him still. He'd burned her soul away and created her anew, and so no search was needed. She carried a part of him within her, and all she had to do was to let it go home.

Her bond with Connor was of a different kind. "It should help that I know the Highlands, and Connor and I have searched for each other before."

"Then let's go," Chelle said, already standing.

They crossed the river and went south to the abandoned abbey that had been built near a spring sacred to the Gauls. "Holy ground," Chelle said with satisfaction upon seeing the ancient cemetery stones. She walked the perimeter, then picked a vantage point on a half-tumbled wall to keep guard. "Whenever you're ready," she said to Cassandra with a nod.

"When the sun goes down," Cassandra replied, watching the red-orange glow behind the trees.

"Why?"

"On the solstice, the sun is strong. The veil is thinnest when light and dark intertwine."

"Huh," she said. "Connor never said anything about that."

"Perhaps it's not so true for him," Cassandra suggested. "Each person must find their own way through."

"I hear a lot of birds," Chelle offered.

"I hear trees."

Chelle looked around them at the grove of pines then asked, "How long will you be under?"

"It's difficult to say. Ten minutes, at least. An hour, maybe."

Chelle nodded, then asked suddenly, "Are you really that comfortable with this? With me?"

Trust came hard, in both directions. "Ceirdwyn told me you'd been a Marine and a doctor and a teacher, Chelle," Cassandra said. "You've sworn oaths to protect and to serve. Would you attack an unarmed defenseless woman, drag her off holy ground, and then take her head?"

"No," Chelle bit out.

"No," Cassandra agreed. "You are a woman of honor. Also, you're friends with Ceirdwyn and Duncan and Gregor. And Connor," she added with a smile. "They trust you, and so do I." She did not point out the obviously corollary. Chelle would have to reach that conclusion on her own.

When the sun was almost to the horizon, Cassandra started to peel off all her clothes, so that her skin could feel the air. Chelle said "huh" again, and Cassandra asked dryly, "Connor never said anything about this, either?"

"Nope. Didn't demonstrate, either," she said with a show of regret. Then she grinned. "Too distracting—for everyone."

"I imagine so," Cassandra agreed with an answering smile, but the sun was nearly at the horizon, and the moment was at hand. Cassandra focused on the caress of the wind, the warmth of the earth beneath her feet, and the rhythm of the moontides in her blood. Her hands were open, her eyes were closed, and she reached out with her quickening to find the heartbeat of the man she loved.

Northward she went, to that land of stone and water and sky, the glens that Connor had hunted as a young man, the hills he had climbed as a boy. She found his family, their ashes and bones melting into the earth: Alex and Rachel and Sara. Colin was there, too. In sorrow, Cassandra paused to bid him farewell; then she picked up the hunt again.

She looked south to Glen Coe, to the cairn for Ramirez and the faint remnants of Heather's bones. Connor wasn't there. Cassandra went north again, to bleak hills of barren stone and water dark as the new moon. Cave after cave was empty, glen after glen lay silent, until finally she found him, a spark of a quickening upon a wind-scoured isle in the middle of an angry sea.

Cassandra made no attempt at contact; Connor would not welcome her intrusion in his time of grief, certainly not this way. She turned the hunt to Methos, expecting a quick connection, but instead wavered aimlessly, drifting. She cast the net wide, actively seeking now, but he was not to be found. Cassandra came back to her body and slowly lowered her arms, blinking in the fading light, tasting the dust on the air.

"That was quick," Chelle commented. "What did you find?"

"Connor's alive," Cassandra said as she reached for her clothes. But Duncan was right to be worried about Methos.

"Ok, good," Chelle said. "So… why did Connor stand me up?"

"He's in mourning, living on holy ground in the Highlands." She pulled her shirt over her head. "His son Colin is dead."

"Damn," Chelle said softly, then asked, "How do you know that?"

"I just saw Colin's grave."

"Just now? You mean…" When Cassandra nodded, Chelle cursed in surprise, and gave Cassandra yet another visual exam. "You're good."

"Inborn talent," Cassandra explained, a useful euphemism for witchcraft or psychic power. "And a lot of practice. I can teach you," she offered.

"Thanks." Chelle sounded pleased, if surprised. "I'd like that." Then she sobered. "Colin's the last of them, right? Connor's four kids?"

Cassandra nodded, wiping her tears away as she pulled her shirt on. All the family was gone now.

Chelle swore again. "That sucks." She hopped off the broken wall. "Guess Connor wants to be alone."

"He may think that," Cassandra said, putting on her shoes. "But it's not good for him."

"Are you going to go to him?"

"I'd like to," Cassandra replied, and she made herself smile at the other woman, "but I think it should be you."

"That's damn generous of you," Chelle said, more suspicious than grateful. "Why?"

So many reasons, so many years. Her smile slipped away. "Connor has enough memories right now." He didn't need her.

* * *

><p><strong>Bengaluru, India, 25 June 2053<strong>

* * *

><p>The restaurant was busy when Duncan arrived, but he didn't need to look around to know that no immortal—including Cassandra—was there. He surveyed the crowd anyway, a standard precaution: middle-aged couples, a pair of young women dressed for a night out, a group of businessmen, a noisy family celebration taking up an entire corner … nothing unusual. The waitress took him to a small table near the window, and Duncan ordered a gin and tonic, for old time's sake. When the British East India Company had ruled the land three centuries ago, everyone in the garrison drank "the tonic" to ward off malaria, masking the bitterness of the quinine with sweeteners and gin.<p>

The two young women were looking his way, but he wasn't in the mood to chat. He kept his head down and perused the menu, a variety of Chinese and Continental and Indian cuisines. He ordered an appetizer of grilled mushrooms, also for old time's sake, along with a bottle of wine.

Cassandra arrived at the same time as the food. "Duncan," she said warmly, kissing his cheek. "I was glad to hear from you."

"I'm glad you could come," he said, pulling out her chair for her then sitting down to face her across the table. "And surprised," he admitted, pouring them each a glass of wine. "This is a long way from France."

"Something is … odd," she said. "It needs looking into."

"A disturbance in the force?" Duncan replied with a small attempt at humor.

"None." She wasn't smiling. "None at all. There should be something."

"But Methos isn't dead?" he pressed.

She shook her head slowly. "I think I would know."

"You thought he was dead before," he pointed out. "For centuries."

"I wanted him to be," she said matter-of-factly. She shook out the cloth napkin with a snap and laid it across her lap. "I never looked for him." Her lovely cat-green eyes were unblinking as she announced: "Now we will."

They had set out together to find Methos once before. That search had ended with friendships broken by blood and hopes shattered by tears. But it was a new millennium, and hope and friendship had grown anew, perhaps into something more.

Duncan lifted his wine glass in a toast. "To friends," he proposed.

"To friends," she agreed, and they drank together.

Cassandra looked carefully at the mushrooms, and he reminded her, "Not all mushrooms are poisonous." She smiled then as she speared one, for she had said the same to him centuries ago. He had been a boy of thirteen, visiting the cottage of the witch of Donan Wood, warily regarding the bowl of peculiar—and (he'd been sure) deadly—food she had set before him.

"Have you heard from Connor?" she asked.

"A year ago, in the spring. He sent me a note from Glenfinnan." Yet another picture of that monument to Bonnie Prince Charlie. "He'll be staying in the Highlands, near Colin, for as long as he can." It was the life both he and Connor had grown up expecting: breathing the brisk Highland air, working side by side with your son, watching the grandchildren grow, all near the very same loch where your own parents had lived and died… Duncan smiled, glad for his kinsman. "Connor's home."

"Duncan," Cassandra began, touching his hand, her eyes sad, and so Duncan knew to brace himself for the blow to come. Not Connor, it couldn't be Connor, she would have told him right away instead of asking for news, so it had to be so someone else, someone—

"Colin's dead."

Someone he loved. Dimly, Duncan heard her murmur "I'm sorry" but the room blurred about him as he remembered his nephew, his namesake, tiny Colin Duncan MacLeod, only a few hours old, soft and helpless in his arms, looking up at him with wondering eyes, while Connor stood exultant and exhausted nearby. The memories flickered by—a laughing toddler on a sled, a serious boy intent on fishing, a teen riding a horse, a quiet man holding a child of his own. It was a movie played too fast and over much too soon. Duncan blinked back tears at this latest blow to the heart. He muttered an oath in Gaelic and then a prayer in Latin.

"Amen," Cassandra responded, her eyes still sad, and she lifted her glass of wine. "To family."

"Aye," Duncan agreed, with a roughness in his throat, and they toasted the memory of Colin, and then of Sara and John and his family, too, all of them taken before their time. At least Connor would have had the chance to say goodbye to Colin, unlike with Sara and John. Or with young Tomas. "Where's Connor now?" Duncan asked. "Do you know?"

"Yes, the day I received your letter, I scried for both him and Methos. Connor is still in the Highlands; he's gone to holy ground."

Duncan nodded, for he himself had sought refuge from time to time, but solitude wasn't good for Connor, not when he was grieving this way. Cassandra knew that, too. "Now I'm really surprised you came here," Duncan said.

"Connor won't be alone," she replied. "Chelle went to be with him."

"Chelle?" Duncan repeated in surprise. "You mean Michelle Webster?"

"Yes."

"I didn't realize you two knew each other."

"Ceirdwyn's mentioned her, and Chelle visited me last week, wondering if I knew where Connor was. She left for the Highlands a few days ago."

"Good," Duncan said. "Those two kind of rubbed each other the wrong way when they first met, but they got to be friends after Tomas and Terah died." Duncan stopped to ask: "Did Chelle tell you about them?"

"She did. A brutal tragedy."

He'd never put those two words together before, but it fit. "Yeah." Duncan drank what was left of his wine. "Connor and Chelle both took it hard, but strong friendships can come out of shared pain."

Cassandra laid her hand upon his, and her smile was both warm and sad. "As you and I know all too well."

"It's been a long road for us," he agreed, turning his hand so that their fingers intertwined. Then he poured them both more wine, and they drank in silence this time. The mushrooms had grown cold, but they ate them anyway, and then Cassandra went to visit the lavatory while Duncan waited for their meal to arrive.

A woman wearing a knee-length tunic of gray with red and black trim slowed as she walked by, and Duncan glanced up and met her gaze. She was attractive, with dusky skin and dark eyes, and from the dusting of silver in her short black hair and the lines from nose to mouth, Duncan estimated her to be about fifty years old. She held a nearly empty tumbler in her left hand, and a thin scar twisted over her right cheek and ended at her right ear. From a knife, probably, or a piece of glass. Either she had no money for plastic surgery or she was one of those who wore her scar as a "mark of victory instead of shame," a defiant reminder to all who saw her of the violence she had survived.

He wasn't trying to start a conversation, but she was looking back at him, and she stopped walking to say, "Pardon me, I don't mean to stare. It's only that you look quite like that man who rescued those people in the North Sea. But of course you couldn't be," she said, leaning forward a little, close enough that he could smell rum. "Duncan MacLeod died at sea, seven years ago."

He'd run into this before. People remembered mysteries, so it was better to explain the resemblance away with a plausible story. "He was my uncle," Duncan said. "We still miss him terribly."

Most people took the hint, offered their condolences, and moved on. This woman confided, "I met him once."

"Oh," Duncan said, but he didn't recognize her and he made no effort to try to remember her; ignorance make it easier to lie.

"Only briefly." She smiled at the memory. "He still made quite the impression. He was very handsome." The woman peered at him again. "It is an amazing resemblance."

He shrugged, a polite and uninterested smile on his face. "That happens sometimes."

"Yes," she agreed. "It does."

Duncan saw Cassandra finally emerge from the lavatory, and he said, "My dinner date is returning," but the woman made no move to leave, simply turned to watch. Maybe she was lonely, or just liked to talk. And that drink probably hadn't been her first. Well, Cassandra could get rid of her easily enough. Duncan didn't want to cause a scene

Cassandra quickened her step then greeted the woman by pressing both palms together and bowing her head in the anjali mudra, the salutation seal, before saying, "Councilor Amshula."

Duncan immediately got to his feet, both for politeness and for freedom to move. This encounter might still be simple chance, but he wanted all his options open.

"Sister Elise," Councilor Amshula replied, saluting in turn, but not bowing quite so deeply.

Duncan tried to remember when and where –and if—he had met this Amshula before. It would have been between 2029 and 2046, when he'd been using his real name. During a visit to Cassandra, probably, since Phinyx was involved. The castle in the Alps, Prague, London… Or maybe during a mission? Phinyx had provided search and rescue help a few times.

"Councilor, this is my friend Justin Morris." Cassandra seemed cheerfully composed, but that could be a cover. "Justin, this is Amshula, Councilor of the Guardians."

As Duncan pressed his palms together and bowed, the title helped the name click in. They'd been in Prague, nearly a quarter of a century ago, standing in a hallway with Sara. Amshula had been the guard in the excellently tailored uniform who had offered to show him the city and given him her card. He'd never called.

"Councilor Amshula," Duncan said in greeting as he straightened. She'd done well in her career, rising to be head of all the Guardians. So why was she here?

She bowed back but didn't say his name. "Your friend and I were just talking about family resemblances," she told Cassandra. "It's amazing how much he looks like his uncle, Duncan MacLeod. Did you know you look like your aunt, Laina Garrison?"

"So my mother always told me," Cassandra said.

She still seemed unconcerned, but he didn't like the way this conversation was going. Duncan rapidly surveyed the room again, noting exits and obstacles but mostly people. A worker was taking her time in cleaning a table in their corner of the room, and those two pretty young women were watching him and Cassandra now, but with barely a glance for Amshula. Three Guardians, well trained and well hidden. That left about two dozen civilians. He could fight his way out, if he had to, but people could get hurt. Cassandra couldn't use the Voice on four people at once, but she could tell Amshula to order the other three to back off. They could still talk their way out.

Amshula was waiting for him when he finished his evaluation. "Your families seem to have known each other for quite some time, Mr. Morris. Did you know that Elise's aunt and your uncle were friends?" Cassandra smiled, but neither she nor Duncan replied. Amshula's brief smile was amused instead of friendly. "I wonder, Mr. Morris: were Sandra Grant and your 'great-uncle' old friends, too?"

Sandra Grant had been Cassandra's alias fifty years ago. Duncan didn't think Amshula was wondering at all. She knew, and she knew far too much. "What do you want?" he asked bluntly.

She tossed back one word: "Answers," while watching him as intently as a cat waiting for a mole.

"Amshula," Cassandra called, and the sound of that name was coiled leather, soft and supple and strong. Amshula turned to look at her, couldn't help but turn to look at her, and Duncan shuddered at the power of the Voice so near. "Amshula," Cassandra said again, and he could see the bonds of control wrap even tighter. "I'm the one you want to talk to," Cassandra urged.

"Yes," Amshula agreed, and the two women sat down with nary a glance for him. Duncan suspected he could have danced the flamenco – naked—in the middle of the restaurant, and Amshula wouldn't have bothered to turn around. Cassandra kept eye contact with Amshula while shooing him away with a subtle motion of one hand.

Well, he knew someone who wanted him. Duncan strode over to the table with the two Guardians who now appeared focused on eating their meal. "Ladies!" he greeted them joyously, and after a few moments of flirting he was invited to join them for dinner.

"If your date won't mind?" one of them asked, glancing back at Cassandra and Amshula, who were deep in conversation.

"She's just a business associate," he explained. "And she found someone else she'd rather do business with."

After dinner, Duncan invited the women to go dancing, and their apparent delight held a touch of satisfaction at keeping him under surveillance while their commander got answers. He opened doors and held chairs and was a perfect gentleman, and as they chattered on he learned of their travels and some of their training, and got a sense of the command structure and goals of the Guardians. Over the centuries, Duncan had perfected his own interrogation techniques.

* * *

><p>Near midnight, he went back to his hotel and found Cassandra waiting for him in the lobby. She looked pale and drained, sitting on one of the couches against the wall, with an empty cup held loosely in her hand. Traveling was always tiring; using the Voice was exhausting. "Did you erase Amshula's memory?" he asked, sitting next to her.<p>

To Duncan's relief, Cassandra shook her head. "She has too much evidence written down, and the trail is too obvious. She would simply come to the same conclusion again."

"So…?" he prompted.

"So, I recruited her."

"You couldn't just tell her to keep quiet?"

"Yes, I could have," Cassandra replied with an easy confidence that made Duncan uneasy. "But other people will find the same information. Amshula is in a position to monitor and channel their investigations safely, and to let me know."

"Will you recruit those people, too, or will Amshula do that for you?"

"She could. She knows to keep Immortality secret."

"Because you ordered her to," Duncan noted.

"Of course I did. It's best to be sure about this, and killing her seemed extreme." She twisted to look at him. "What do you do, Duncan, when someone finds out what we are?"

"It depends. Convince them they're wrong, or—if that doesn't work—convince them to keep quiet. Lie. Change or destroy evidence. Steal it sometimes."

"That's exactly what the Watchers did." Each word came out slowly. "They also killed, and they died, sometimes under torture, all to keep a secret that wasn't even theirs."

Duncan knew that Joe Dawson had been willing to do both.

"For centuries they helped us hide, and we didn't even know they existed." Cassandra leaned forward and put her cup down, a tremor shaking her hand so that the cup rattled on the table, then leaned back with a sigh. "We need them. Or something like them."

This wasn't a good place or time to discuss it. "Let's get some sleep now," he said as he stood; then he offered her his hand. "We can talk later."

"Sleep sounds wonderful," she agreed, and she held on tightly as he helped to pulled her upright.

She seemed unsteady on her feet, so he asked, "Have you eaten since dinner?" She'd always had a snack after their training sessions in the Voice at St. Hildegarde's school. She seemed confused by the question but then shook her head. "I've got food in my room," he told her. "And you can spend the night here." When she hesitated, he asked, "If you're allowed?"

"Allowed to what?"

"Be in a man's room."

That woke her up enough for a smile. "We do call each other sister, but we're definitely not nuns, Duncan. Mother Annemarie is always disappointed when we tell her we're not pregnant."

"Wish I could help," he told her in jest but then realized how that might sound. "I didn't mean—" Though, truth to tell, he wouldn't mind. "Unless you want…?"

"Duncan, thank you, but I'm not—"

"—in the mood," he said with her, and she nodded. "That's fine," he reassured her. "Just friends, like before." Except for that one night of passion after Roland's death, he and Cassandra hadn't been lovers, even though they'd shared a bed while they'd been hunting the Horsemen and again a few years later in the Highlands of Scotland.

"Friends," she confirmed, linking her arm through his. "Food and sleep now, and tomorrow we start looking for Methos."

"Good."

In his room she ate, and then they got ready for bed. As they faced each other across the pillows, she said, "We will find him, Duncan."

"Is that hope? Or prophecy?"

"Prophecy."

She turned out the light, and Duncan slept well for the first time since the New Year.

* * *

><p>The next morning was warm and steamy, and Duncan controlled his impatience as they trod ground irritatingly familiar to him. Methos's place of work, the coffee bar where Duncan had met the mathematician, Methos's apartment, the media store in his neighborhood. "It's jumbled," Cassandra said, waving her hand in front of her eyes. "Too busy. Too paved. Is there a park nearby?"<p>

"A big one." Duncan led the way to the city gardens, where Cassandra took off her shoes and stood with her eyes closed and her hand on the trunk of a large tree, her toes digging into the dirt. "Anything?" he asked when she finally opened her eyes.

"Odd lightening, in the time of the rains." She slipped her shoes on. "Year before last."

"When Methos disappeared," Duncan said grimly.

"It wasn't him. This was a young one. Perhaps someone he knew? Or perhaps the victor of that battle went after Methos."

She did not, Duncan noticed, bring up the idea that Methos might have been the one to kill the young immortal or to go after the victor of the battle. Because he wouldn't have. He didn't headhunt and he didn't do revenge.

"Let's look into it," Duncan said, and they spent the rest of the morning reading old reports and newsfeeds, looking for missing persons and odd thunderstorms from that month. They took a break for lunch, carrying their food to the gardens, but Duncan didn't let the time go to waste. "What are your plans for Amshula and her comrades?" he asked after they had sat down in the shade of a tree.

She glanced up at him as she set out a cloth napkin on the grass."What do you think I should do?"

"I'd like to know your plans," he insisted with iron cheerfulness.

Cassandra set naan and a bunch of grapes upon the cloth before responding. "Inculcate those who know about us with a sense of mission, a larger purpose. Stress that only a few people, carefully selected, are part of the team; their pride in being chosen will help ensure secrecy and dedication. Reinforce as needed, frequently this coming year, less often as time goes by. Eventually, they'll be training themselves."

"Sounds like boot camp," Duncan commented, but that was no surprise. Those were standard techniques for melding individuals into a team. But such a force—whether military or religious or ideological—could easily go too far. "Connor told me you helped him take the Watcher Organization apart. Why are you starting it again?"

"Because we need it. These people will know about us, obviously, but their mission will be to hide all evidence of our existence, not create more by writing chronicles."

"Ever heard of mission creep?" he asked dryly. "Or the Hunters?"

"Yes. But if we don't hide, every mortal on the planet will be a hunter."

"Not all mortals will hate us just because of what we are."

"You're right," she admitted immediately. "I exaggerated. But most people will. It's bad enough we don't age, but if they believed an immortal was fated to become their dictator with immense powers, ruling over them forever… Would you want that, if you were a mortal?"

"No." He wouldn't want that as an immortal, either. "Did you tell Amshula about the Prize?"

"I told her about quickenings, of course. That's part of what we have to hide. Then I told her that some immortals believed they were fighting for a 'prize', but that most immortals fought only when they had to, to survive."

Duncan looked at her curiously. "You don't believe in the Prize."

"Even if I did," Cassandra said, plucking a grape from the bunch, "I wouldn't kill for it."

Duncan took a grape for himself and ate it slowly. "I don't kill 'for' it," he explained. "I kill to stop evil immortals from getting it."

Both her eyebrows lifted. "If a good immortal wins the Prize and gains 'power enough to rule the world', how long do you think that immortal will stay good?"

Absolute power corrupted absolutely. "Not forever," he had to admit. "Horton and his Hunters hated and feared us just because of what are, not what one of us could become, but much as I don't like to admit it, they had a point. If mortals killed all of us, so that no immortal could accumulate quickenings, then no one could win the Prize. There would never be an immortal dictator."

Cassandra nodded as she tore off a piece of naan. "That's why I told Amshula that the Prize was a myth, a reason some immortals used to justify taking heads, but that it wasn't real."

"The Watchers kept track of us because of the Prize," Duncan pointed out. "They wanted to know something about who won. Why should these … neo-Watchers bother keeping our secret, if they don't believe?"

She sighed and stared at her food. "Good point. I didn't think that through."

"There was a lot going on last night," Duncan said reassuringly. "We'll just have to give them something else to believe in."

Her smile was brilliant. "Let me know if you think of something, would you?"

Duncan finished his lunch in thoughtful silence.

* * *

><p><strong>Mombai, India, 26 July 2053<strong>

* * *

><p>"Do you get the answers you wanted, Amshula?" Parul asked, looking up from the pot she was painting.<p>

"Yes," Amshula replied, shutting the door to Parul's room. "And more." She told Parul of immortals and of the lightning they carried within, of endless feuds and sudden horrors, of loyalty and love across the ages, of ancient rituals in temples long destroyed.

"It's like a story from the Rigveda," Parul said, and they both looked at the painting of the pantheon that hung on the wall. Indra carried a lightning bolt; his brother Agni, god of fire and sacrifice, had two heads. Kali and Shiva danced together in the eternal cycle of destruction and creation, and the Divine Mother held forth gifts in her many hands. "I know I've been a priestess for more than twenty years, but I always thought they were just…allegories," Parul said. "Symbols of a deeper truth. They're too fantastic to be real."

Amshula had never believed the old stories literally, either, and she wouldn't have believed this tale of immortals if she herself hadn't been the one to find the evidence. After Laina Garrison had died in the bombing, Amshula had kept up with the niece's career out of simple curiosity. But then a surveillance picture of Justin Morris (who looked exactly like Duncan MacLeod) had appeared on her desk, and curiosity had grown into suspicion. And now it was reality. She turned from the painting to her phone, which showed images of Cassandra and Duncan going back half a century, from employment files at St. Hildegarde's, newsfeeds, surveillance video, and old IDs.

Parul reached out a hand to the screen, not quite touching. "If immortals are real—"

"They are," Amshula replied. She'd spoken with them, eaten with one, and (years ago) flirted with another. They were real.

"Then avatars of the gods truly walk among us." She quoted softly: "Whenever righteousness wanes and unrighteousness increases, I send myself forth. For the protection of the good and for the destruction of evil, and for the establishment of righteousness…"

Amshula joined in on the last line. "…I come into being, age after age." She hadn't remembered that. "Cassandra said that immortals never know their parents. They're all orphans."

"They come into being," Parul said with a nod. "Though from what you say, not all immortals protect the good. Some must be of demons instead of gods."

"I don't think it's that simple," Amshula said. "Cassandra said she'd done evil deeds in years past, deeds she regretted now."

Parul stared at the painting before saying slowly, "They do not die, so they cannot be reborn. They remember all their many lives; they know their own karma. In time, some become worthy to be avatars."

"I suppose," Amshula said. Parul was the priestess, not her.

"Cassandra became a priestess of the Great Mother during the Bronze Age, and now she works to bring back ancient ways, to make the wheel turn so the world can manifest itself anew." Parul leaned forward eagerly. "This is Shakti, the one who changes. But not only one; we are all of Shakti. We are all bound to help." She clasped Amshula's hand, priestess to guardian, for the invocation: "We are the change we have been waiting for."

Amshula's grip was strong as she gave the ritual response: "And we shall change the world."

* * *

><p><strong>Bengaluru, 27 July 2053<strong>

* * *

><p>Cassandra and Duncan woke before dawn and went back to the gardens. In a lawn of grass edged by flowers, Cassandra poured water into a copper bowl. "Not fire?" Duncan asked, because he'd seen her use candles before.<p>

"Methos is water." She took off her shoes and faced the sunrise, eyes closed, speaking softly in a language he didn't recognize. Then she watched the water as the sunshine slid across the bowl. The paths were busy with early morning walkers before she tipped the bowl and slowly poured the water onto the grass.

"Anything?" Duncan asked, trying not to sound too impatient while still making it clear they needed to hurry.

"There's nothing to connect to, Duncan. There's no energy."

"His body is dead?" he suggested.

"Yes," she agreed slowly. "That might be."

Duncan thought of the ways an immortal could stay dead for days—even months—on end. A knife in just the right place, getting trapped underwater or in a cave, being buried under mud or dirt or snow so that there was no air… He shuddered with old memories.

"Keep reading?" Cassandra suggested, and they spent another morning combing through files.

Just before lunch, the searching paid off. "Here," he said, showing the report to Cassandra. "Gitali, a twenty-six-year-old woman, was reported missing five days after the day Methos disappeared. No body was ever found; the mother was distraught. She lives in a village to the north, about three hours by train, one hour by darkmatter express, but that's not running now; it needs parts."

"We should talk to Gitali's mother," Cassandra said.

"Let's go," Duncan said, and they packed their bags and took the train. But they got no answers at the village; the mother had died six months before and the neighbors had noticed nothing strange. And they had no other leads. Duncan paced along the stream bank while the shadows lengthened and Cassandra sat and stared at the water.

"You said there was no energy," he said, stopping near her. "How about matter? If you had something physical of his, could it connect to his body, the way you've been trying to connect to his mind?"

"Perhaps," she allowed. "It would need to be something he'd touched frequently."

Duncan reached into his pocket then held out the key he had never used. "This is for his house in England." She did not reach for it, and he asked, "Will it work?"

"I think it might," she said. "You should hold it. Not me. We'll try tomorrow at dawn."

It was a long night.

In the darkness of the next morning, they walked to a grove of trees surrounded by sorghum fields. At dawn, Cassandra knelt on the earth and placed the copper bowl upon a bed of fallen leaves. Duncan asked curiously, "If Methos is water, what am I?"

"Earth."

"And Connor?"

"The same. The rock of the Highlands is in your bones." She looked up with a smile. "And both of you are touchstones for me." She poured a finger's depth of water in the bowl then sat back on her heels and laid her hands on her thighs. "Can you place the key in the water?"

Duncan joined her on the ground and slid the key into the bowl. It went in with barely a ripple and lay on the bottom, doing nothing. "How does this work? It's too heavy to float like a compass needle."

"The patterns it makes in the water point the way."

He peered closer and saw nothing in the filtered light, but Cassandra was obviously fascinated, leaning forward with her hands on the ground, her fingers splayed out into the dust, and with her shoulder-length hair falling about face like a curtain. Duncan waited, keeping watch for any danger and listening to the rustles of the leaves and the voices of the farmers coming into their fields.

After about ten minutes, she sat back with a smile. "It worked."

"That's great!" Duncan nearly laughed aloud with relief. "Where is he?"

"North."

That cold slap of reality punctured his joy. He'd been hoping for a wee bit more detail. "We're in the south end of the subcontinent," Duncan commented dryly. "There's a lot of north."

"Yes, there is," she agreed ruefully then carefully emptied the bowl onto the ground.

The faded leaves darkened to deep brown, and the water disappeared in the earth. When Duncan picked the key up, it was warm to the touch, though the water was cool. He stood and shouldered his pack. "Let's go."

They went by train that first day, passing fields and villages that were quieter than they should have been. Some were silent and abandoned. No children anywhere, save in the towns that had schools. "It's like the Highlands during the Clearances," Duncan observed as another ghost town flickered by.

"Or like Babylon when the droughts began," Cassandra added then waved her hand at a stand of trees. "In fifty years, the forests will have returned. We'll have only about one billion people by then."

"Haven't seen that in a century," Duncan said then remembered a discussion at a family picnic about five years ago. "You really think we'll drop from five billion to one billion in a quarter of a century?"

"No, because of Yellowstone, I think the drop will be steeper and come sooner. We've lost the breadbasket of North America, and crops have been failing around the globe. Stockpiles are gone, and resources of all kinds are depleted. The infrastructure is shredded; the edges are isolated, and the centers will go soon."

Duncan had seen the destruction of a people before. "So we're talking death, famine, war, and plague?"

Her lips tightened at those names. "Yes."

"Great," he commented sourly. "The apocalypse comes after all."

They passed two more empty villages before she said, "It's not the end of the world, Duncan. But things will change."

* * *

><p>The journey was tedious, as most journeys were, but made worse by not knowing when or where it would end. Cassandra took their bearings the next morning with the key, and once again they headed north. "If you can do this and the scrying," Duncan asked, "why did you use a detective agency to find me when I lived in Seacouver?"<p>

"Because I couldn't do this," she told him. "Or the scrying. Not then. I had … disconnected myself." From the Earth, from people, from love. She had cut herself off from life to seek death.

Now she was seeking Death.

"What's funny?" Duncan asked.

"Nothing," she said. "It's just ironic, you and I traveling together, seeking Methos again."

"And we don't know where we're going this time, either."

She smiled. "Maybe Methos has left us another matchbook to follow."

* * *

><p>He hadn't, but when they finally reached Armenia they did find a clue. "I'm not here to fight," another immortal told Cassandra during a chance encounter in the market.<p>

"Nor am I," Cassandra told her, and they parted without another word.

Two days later, they met outside a hotel bathroom. "Are you following me?" the other immortal demanded, trying to be intimidating but failing. She seemed very young and very nervous. She didn't have a sword, but her hand was ready on a gun.

"No,' Cassandra said, adding soothing harmonics to the word. "Are you following me?"

She looked surprised. "No."

"Where are you going?" Cassandra asked, this time layering the words with the Voice of Command.

"The haven."

Cassandra smiled with delight. "Why, that's wonderful! So am I." Now to find out what this "haven" was.

"It's an academy for immortals," she reported to Duncan at dinner. "Like Ceirdwyn's school, but for adults. Erianne learned about it online."

"Who runs it?"

"Erianne didn't know."

"And she's going there? It could be a trap."

"It's on Holy Ground."

Duncan shook his head. "It could still be a trap."

"Methos is there," she told him, for after hearing Erianne's story, Cassandra had given scrying another try. "He's alive."

Duncan stood. "Let's go."

* * *

><p><em>To be continued in "Testimony", wherein Methos is in need of a friend.<br>_


	29. Manhunt

**MANHUNT**

* * *

><p><em><strong>Armenia, 14 October 2053<strong>_

* * *

><p>"You won't have to have sex with him anymore," Erianne quietly told Cassandra as they watched Duncan haggle with the driver for a ride. "After we get to Haven."<p>

Cassandra doubted that many women would consider sex with Duncan to be an imposition. As long as they had a choice, of course. "That's good to know," she replied, "but I'm not having sex with him now."

"Really?" Erianne said, turning to Cassandra in surprise then looking back at Duncan. "Then why is he protecting you?"

He wasn't "protecting" her, any more than she was protecting him. They were helping each other. But immortal friends were rare, and during Erianne's seventeen years as an immortal, it seemed she had survived by using more than just her wits. Amanda had once described the technique with her usual forthright aplomb: Give some head to keep your head.

"Duncan and I are friends," Cassandra replied, and gave Erianne a moment to think about that before asking, "Did the man you were with teach you anything about swords?"

"Not the first two. The third one did; he wasn't too bad. Jaqi even said I didn't have to sleep with him, but he liked it, and it made it easier. I figured he was less likely to abandon me—or kill me—if I kept him happy."

Cassandra couldn't fault the logic or blame the approach. She'd done the same herself in years past, as had millions of other people. "How did you meet them, these men?"

"They were the victors."

And Erianne had been the spoils. "What happened to Jaqi?"

"The woman who killed him had no use for me. No time for me, either. She said she'd heard something about a place called Haven that might have a teacher, so I started searching for it online. I didn't find much, but after a while, someone from Haven contacted me."

That someone was either a helpful immortal who'd created a bonafide school or (more likely) a spider waiting for a fly to touch a strand of its web. If Duncan were the one missing, Cassandra wondered, what would Methos do at this point: walk into that web or walk away?

"Good news," Duncan said cheerfully as he came over. "We've got a ride to the next valley."

The three of them climbed into the back of the stripped-down truck, maneuvering between boxes and bales and a crate of unhappy chickens. Erianne took a seat next to Duncan, instead of avoiding him as she'd done so far.

In the front seat, the driver released the handbrake and put the truck in gear then picked up the reins and called to his team of horses. Petrol was strictly rationed, but grass still grew on these hills. Cassandra hadn't watched the world go by at this gentle pace for decades. She had time to decipher the names on a road sign, which was lettered in both Cyrillic and Armenian scripts. The Arabic numerals were familiar enough to be easy: nineteen kilometers to the old monastery that was now Haven.

The trees blazed with autumn color, and the air grew cooler and sharper as they climbed. On a steep grade, when they got out to walk as the horses labored up the hill, Erianne asked, "How did you hear of Haven, Cassandra?"

"Another immortal mentioned it to me," Cassandra replied. No matter that the immortal had been Erianne herself.

"Why are you going?"

"Partly because I'm curious. Mostly because I'd like to be on Holy Ground and not have to be on guard all the time."

"Me, too," Erianne said fervently. "Is that why you're going, Duncan?" She looked up at him with the slow and luxurious blink of a woman interested in a man. "You certainly don't need a sword teacher."

Duncan's smile was friendly, but nothing more. "I heard a friend of mine might be there, and I'm just following Cassandra's lead."

Cassandra hadn't led them here. They were following ripples of water, created from the key carried next to Duncan's heart.

* * *

><p><em><strong>The Cell – Reviving<strong>_

* * *

><p>Methos woke to darkness and a bitter taste on his lips. He was lying on the floor in the cell and covered by a blanket yet again, courtesy of the self-styled Tribunal who'd set themselves up as police, judge, jury, and executioner for immortals. Waking up this way was irritatingly familiar, but he also felt hollow, stretched out somehow, and his limbs were weak and slow to respond.<p>

That feeling was familiar too, though not recently. Still, it wasn't something you ever forgot. He'd been dead for months, perhaps years. Apparently, the Tribunal had decided to keep him quiet and out of mischief while they completed their "further investigation" of him. How very logical of them.

Had they also been quick? Methos sat up then waved a hand, hoping to activate the vid screen on the ceiling. It came on, to his relief and surprise. The date displayed was the fourteenth of October, and the year was 2053.

Eighteen months. They'd made him miss both the launch date and the meet with MacLeod. Methos cursed softly. He'd been looking forward to those. But he still had his head, which was always a good thing, and a year and a half wasn't too much lost time.

He skimmed the newsfeeds for highlights, pausing to read an article about last week's long-delayed return of the Ganymede expedition to Earth. He caught a glimpse of Serena in the crew, her brown hair close-cropped for practicality. She looked good, but he missed the red tresses. In other news, New York City had been flooded again, a 25-story wooden skyscraper had been built in Osaka, and around the world, population was declining, food was scarce, loose trousers were all the rage for all the sexes, someone had been assassinated, someone had been elected, et cetera, et cetera, blah, blah, blah.

Food arrived, and he ate slowly, chewing each mouthful thoroughly. He saved half the food for later, then went through a gentle exercise routine. Even that was tiring, and he lay down again to give his body more time to remember being alive.

He put the blanket behind his head for a pillow then selected the novel _One Hundred Years of Solitude _from the vid screen. The book opened at the same page he'd been reading eighteen months ago, but he wasn't in the mood for reading. Soon, presumably, the Tribunal would continue their show-trial. After which, they would either let him go or want to kill him.

Clearly, it was time to make plans.

* * *

><p><em><strong>On the road to Haven<strong>_

* * *

><p>"Could this Haven place be part of Phinyx?" Duncan asked Cassandra as the truck started down into the valley. Erianne was dozing in the corner. On the hillside ahead of them, a collection of buildings seemed to grow out of the very rock. The path to that former monastery was narrow and steep, suitable for people on foot and donkeys but not for horses or large groups. The red tiles and solar collectors on the roofs and turrets gleamed and glittered in bright contrast to the mottled stone of the walls and foundations. Phinyx had acquired quite a few old and easily defensible places, and they tried to operate them off the grid.<p>

"Phinyx focuses on mortals," Cassandra said. "Though a school for immortals—and for preimmortals, such as Ceirdwyn and Chelle are doing—is a good idea."

Whoever had set it up, it was on a good site. From up high, Duncan could see that the valley contained wooded areas, grassy fields, and small farms on either side of a stream that foamed white as it rushed over rocks. To the north and south, snow-capped mountains stood tall. Duncan liked it. The place reminded him of the Highlands.

Which reminded him… "When you scried for Methos the other night," Duncan asked, "did you look to see if Chelle is in the Highlands with Connor now?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because Chelle is probably in the Highlands with Connor now."

It took Duncan a moment to make sense of that. He'd never thought of Connor and Chelle as a couple. "You think they—"

"Yes."

Cassandra didn't seem bothered by the idea, but it was still a touchy subject, so Duncan let it go. He was, however, curious about something else, because in the nearly four years of their traveling, Connor had never mentioned Cassandra's name. Duncan's attempts to find out why had been slashed and burned in classic Connor style. Cassandra was by far easier to talk to, so Duncan asked, "What happened between you and Connor this time?"

Her mouth twisted, part smile and part grimace, and she kept looking out the window. "Nothing new."

That covered a lot of territory. Duncan decided to cut to the heart of it. "Did you leave him or did he leave you?"

His bluntness earned a slow head turn and a searching look from Cassandra, but she answered. "We agreed to separate, but it was my idea." The truck lumbered through a rocky patch, tilting them this way and that. "I suppose that is new," she mused. "He's always been the one to leave before."

Since she'd volunteered information, Duncan took another chance and asked for more. "Why did you want to leave?" They went over a bridge and around a hairpin turn, and Duncan began to wonder if she would answer.

She did, finally. "The violence within him frightens me."

"Connor's always had a temper." Duncan could remember quite a few dustups. "You know that."

"You and I both know that," she retorted. "He's killed each of us in a fit of rage."

OK, more than a dustup. Duncan had long thought his death at Connor's hand during sword practice in the Highlands had been brutal training, designed to teach him a lesson he wouldn't forget. Only centuries later did Connor admit the truth: he'd lost his temper and his control. Still… "That was centuries ago, Cassandra, and you two have been together for years. What changed?"

"I had thought," she said carefully, staring straight ahead with her hands flat on her thighs, "that if I didn't make him angry, I would be safe. But then I saw him fighting, soon after Sara died."

Duncan had seen Connor that night—dried blood on hands and shirt, a smear of dirt and blood on the knee—and had spoken to Connor of his own rage after Darius had died. Did you kill anybody? Connor had asked with dull despair. Connor hadn't actually killed anyone that night, but the fellow had ended up in hospital and needed surgery to survive.

"I never realized how much Connor enjoys hurting people," Cassandra said next.

Duncan wanted to protest, to defend his kinsman, to tell her she was wrong. But he had seen Connor fighting, many times, lost in savage joy. Just how far had he gone that night? How far would he go?

"Methos used to be like that," she said. "Roland was like that."

"Connor is not like that," Duncan said firmly. "They took pride in it. Connor regrets it."

Cassandra shook her head. "Regret doesn't lessen the pain of the blows."

"Connor hit you?" Duncan asked incredulously.

"No, not—" She stopped and breathed out slowly then repeated: "No." She was staring straight ahead again. "I wasn't referring to Connor specifically. Roland would sometimes apologize afterwards, or tell me he regretted it, or even ask me to forgive him. Usually if someone hits you, you're angry at him. That's simple. It's worse when someone hits you, then entangles you in hate and guilt, pity and love."

"Physical and emotional abuse," Duncan said.

"Yes. One style." She used both hands to smooth her hair back from her face. "Methos never apologized."

Duncan wasn't going to talk about Methos now. "Did Connor?"

"Yes. And so have I, when things go wrong. Then we try not to hurt each other again. "

"Sounds like a good relationship to me."

"It has been. Very good. Connor is…" Her smile and her voice were trembling with tears. "I love him."

She made it sound like an announcement. Duncan had known it for years.

"But there is a darkness in Connor, and he won't acknowledge it," Cassandra went on, "and it frightens me. We're still friends, and I care for him, but I can't…be with him." She finally lifted her head to look at him. "I feel safer with Methos than I do with Connor."

Holy Christ. Any hope Duncan had had of playing matchmaker went up in flames right there. "I'm sorry," Duncan said at last.

Her answer was a whisper. "So am I."

* * *

><p><em><strong>The Cell – Calling<strong>_

* * *

><p>When Methos woke, he ate the rest of his food, exercised a little, then thought a lot while apparently watching a documentary about the universe. By the end of it, he had a few schemes, and he had gleaned that the universe was big—very big—and spherical, expanding in all directions all the time, except that it created more space simply by expanding, and time got dragged along. Time and space were two sides of the same coin. Not to say that the time-space connection was shaped like a disc. It could perhaps be thought of as a triangle. Or something.<p>

He hadn't been watching all that closely.

Methos went through another set of exercises, this time more vigorous. To build up his endurance, he sang while he jogged in place: "_The universe itself keeps on expanding and expanding | In all of the directions it can whizz_…"

But no. That wasn't how the song started. What was the first line? He tried a few, but they were all wrong. He could have looked it up through the vidscreen, but that would have been cheating and would also have made him stop jogging, so he kept trying on his own.

The vidscreen came on anyway, configured for chat, just as he was belting out the high note in the phrase "_a million miles a day_". He stopped running, then lay down and stretched out on the floor so he could see the ceiling without getting a crick in his neck. He put his hands behind his head, cultivating an aura of relaxation and trying not to breathe too hard.

The avatar on the screen was a nondescript head, and the voice that said "Good morning" was mechanical. The Inquisitor had returned.

"Morning," Methos replied, purely for the sake of politeness. He wouldn't get anywhere by being rude.

"The tribunal will meet soon to continue your evaluation," the voice informed him.

Methos had no patience with euphemisms anymore. "You mean my trial, don't you?"

"You are not being tried for past crimes. You are being evaluated."

"Evaluated for future crimes," Methos clarified.

"Yes."

Lovely. Though truthfully, the future was more in his favor than his past. "Got a fortune teller as well as a truth teller, do you?" Methos asked. The Inquisitor didn't answer, and Methos wondered if they really did have such people. Cassandra's witch powers included prophesy, and the Voice gave her unusual insight into people's state of mind. Maybe that was Cassandra behind the vidscreen. Or another like her. Part of her Sisterhood? Or a distant cousin? Or a completely unrelated group? Who the hell were these people, anyway?

"For the evaluation," the Inquisitor said, "is there any you can call upon who would testify on your behalf?"

Time to get more information. "Will you evaluate them, too?"

"If need be."

No surprise there. "Can they be mortal?"

"If they already know of your immortality. We do not wish to share the secret."

The Tribunal was being logical again. "Do you evaluate the mortals?"

"No. That is not our mission. Again we ask: Is there any you can call upon who would vouch for you?"

Methos had given this question a bit of thought. The last of his mortal friends to know about immortality had died nearly twenty years ago, and of the immortals he knew, most had absolutely no clue who he was or how old he was or what he was capable of. Since the Tribunal was sure to ask about his past as well as his future, that left seven possibilities.

Methos wasn't about to give the Tribunal Duncan's name for a number of reasons, not least of which were the Dark Quickening episode and the Ahriman incident. An expert swordsman who heard voices urging him to kill then took the heads of a student and a friend? The Tribunal might well decide it was better to be safe than sorry. Methos didn't want to be sorry, so he definitely wanted to keep Duncan safe. And Evann, of course, so Methos could never mention her.

Connor MacLeod was out, too, because Connor would never forgive such a breach of privacy, and (assuming the Tribunal let them both go, which wasn't at all certain) Methos didn't want Connor out for his blood.

Cassandra was provisionally on the list of friends, but considering what Methos had done to her, she would be more of a witness for the prosecution than the defense. Also, though the Voice might give her protection from the Tribunal's truth teller, if it didn't, then Cassandra would soon run afoul of the Tribunal's "future danger" alert. After all, he and Duncan and Connor were all prepared to kill her if she got out of line. Methos didn't want the Tribunal making that judgment call.

Elena, she of the fierce temper and rash actions, had tortured and killed a dozen mortals while seeking revenge for a murdered friend. He definitely didn't want to bring her to the Tribunal's attention. Amanda, fond though Methos was of the charming minx, was a thief and professional liar. Not the best character witness.

That left only Serena. She didn't headhunt, she didn't hear demon voices or have the Voice of command, she didn't steal for a living, and she hadn't tortured anyone to death. Instead, she was a fine upstanding citizen who liked to build things and who had been an asset to her communities for centuries.

"There is an immortal," Methos told the Tribunal. "Her current name is Jillian Vathos. She just got back from the Ganymede expedition."

There was a pause longer than usual, then the Inquisitor's voice said: "We know of this immortal."

"I call upon her."

Another pause, even longer, and then the Inquisitor said, "Agreed."

"All right then," Methos said calmly, though secretly he was quite pleased. In addition to being lovely, charming, and intelligent, Serena carried a toolkit with her at all times. She could help him get out one way or another.

* * *

><p><strong>The Gateway to Haven<strong>

* * *

><p>When the truck reached the hamlet near the center of the valley, Duncan and Cassandra and Erianne climbed out of the truck and were met by a stocky immortal with dark hair, dark eyes, and regular features above a short beard. He was a little shorter than Duncan and looked to be about thirty, with broad shoulders and large, strong hands. Amanda would have described him as "more than decent looking" and probably asked him to dance. He announced himself as "Urushan, born of the House of Mehnuni."<p>

"I'm Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod," Duncan replied. Cassandra and Erianne simply said their names.

"Welcome." Urushan's smile didn't reach his eyes. "Haven is holy ground, and swords are not permitted," he informed them. "You must surrender weapons before entering its walls, or you can stay here in the hostel." He motioned to a long building with many windows. The driver who'd given them a ride was leading his horses inside.

"Isn't that the stable?" Erianne asked dubiously.

"The horses are on the ground floor," Urushan said. "Upstairs has rooms for people."

Cassandra and Duncan exchanged a glance with each other, making silent plans to divide and conquer. "I'll stay in the valley," Duncan said, wondering how old Urushan was and if he had grown up near here. His English was correct and clear but not colloquial, and his accent was Slavic-sounding, not Russian, not Ukrainian or Czech, but something in between.

"I'd like to enter Haven," Cassandra said.

"So would I," Erianne said eagerly.

"May it be so," Urushan replied formally. "But first, each of you must speak with the preceptress. She will decide if you are permitted to stay." He was smiling a little as he nodded to the women, but his eyes and stance were wary when he turned to Duncan and said, "The preceptress is waiting for you, at the old shrine under the oak tree near the bridge."

A small patch of holy ground, a place of safety for the interview. Even so, Duncan approached cautiously, alert for any signs of an ambush along the way, and he looked back to Cassandra and Erianne frequently to see if they were still safe. Urushan was standing off to one side, and the women seemed completely fine, while the forest held only the rustle of leaves and the hum of insects, with the softness of old pine needles and dead leaves underfoot. The preceptress, a tall slim figure dressed in dark brown, stood with her face in shadow and her empty hands motionless at her side. Just behind her, a cairn of mossy stones rose from the forest floor, perhaps a shrine to some ancient pagan god of the stream.

He stopped a few paces away to announce again: "I'm Duncan MacLeod of the clan MacLeod." His hands were empty, too, though not far from his blade.

She moved forward into the light, revealing familiar features elegant in their severity, and hair dark as a raven's wing. "Welcome, Duncan." Her smile was like light through cathedral windows.

"Karla?" he asked in surprise and glad relief as he took her hand with a warrior's grip. If Karla were in charge, then this Haven place wouldn't be a trap. Though getting out might be, Duncan thought grimly, as he remembered how Kalas used to lie in wait just off holy ground whenever an immortal left Brother Paul's monastery.

"I did say we'd see each other again," Karla was saying.

"Yes, you did. And what's half a century or so?"

"Too long," she replied. "I had thought to see you sooner."

"I was in New Zealand for a few decades," he explained.

"And now you're here. With companions." She because serious again, all business. "And I must ask you why."

"I'm looking for a friend. I heard he came here."

"What's he look like?"

"About my height, more slender in build, Caucasian, hazel eyes."

Karla shook her head. "We have one male instructor, Urushan,whom you just met, and two male students; both are shorter than you."

"And no male immortals here in the village?"

"No."

Yet the scrying key definitely said Methos was in this valley. Was Karla or someone else hiding him? Or was Methos in hiding? "Maybe he's still on his way," Duncan suggested, not ready to be totally open with Karla, comrades-in-arm though they had been.

"I can ask the others if they know of any—"

"No," Duncan said swiftly. Some of those others might be involved in Methos's disappearance. "I'll wait."

"You may stay as long as you wish, but we do ask that you pay."

"Euros? Rubles?" He was running short of cash.

"Either, but labor is highly valued," she replied. "It's the harvest, and we can always use help in the stables. And if you would like to teach swordwork or other skills, we can arrange a class."

He enjoyed that kind of physical labor, and young immortals always had a lot to learn. "Fine," he agreed.

"What can you tell me of your companions?" Karla asked next, but still looking at him, not back at the women.

"Erianne seems to be a decent young woman who's hoping to find a teacher, but I met her on the road only a few days ago." He didn't bother to add that appearances could be deceiving; they both knew that. "Cassandra is a friend; I've known her all my life."

"Would you trust her with it?"

"Yes." He added deliberately: "I have. As she has trusted me."

"Are you sleeping with either of them? Or both?"

Duncan had forgotten how forthright Karla could be. "Is that relevant?"

"Yes. It affects training. Also, our housekeeper needs to know."

"No," he replied evenly. "I'm not sleeping with either of them. And I'd like to stay in the hostel, not at the school."

"Certainly." She waved her hand at Urushan, and he waved back, said something to Cassandra and Erianne, then left.

Duncan turned back to Karla. "No more guard?"

"Not needed."

It was nice to be trusted. Now it was his turn to ask some questions. "Did you start Haven?"

"Yes. I've seen too many young immortals without teachers, or ruined by bad ones."

Duncan knew exactly what she meant. "I haven't heard of it before. Is it new?"

"We've been taking students for about a decade, and I've set up similar schools in times past. Urushan is from this area; he found us this location just last year."

"How many instructors do you have?"

"Three: Urushan, Pivik, and myself. You can meet all of us, and the students, at dinner this evening, if you like."

"Thank you, I would." He could learn a lot that way.

"I'll speak with Erianne now," Karla said, effectively dismissing him before he could ask anything more.

Duncan bowed slightly, got a gracious tilt of the head in return, then went back to the hostel where Cassandra and Erianne were waiting. "Your turn," he said to Erianne, and when she swallowed nervously, he gave her an encouraging smile and added, "It'll be all right." She straightened and went to meet Karla at the bridge.

"You know the preceptress of Haven," Cassandra observed.

"I met her fifty years ago when she was Sister Mary Carlotta, a lay sister in a Paris convent. But she's been a professional soldier most of her life. Her student Frederich called her the She-Wolf of the Battlefield and the Raven of War."

Cassandra seemed amused. "Quite the titles."

"Her name is Karla Morgan."

"Morgan," Cassandra repeated, looking over at the preceptress. "Do you know how old she is?"

"She's mentioned fighting for Arthur in Britain fifteen hundred years ago, but she called him a duke, not king."

"The Roman title, not the Saxon," Cassandra noted.

"Didn't Arthur fight the Saxons?"

"Exactly," Cassandra agreed. "His people would never have used the word _cyning_."

"Anyway, Karla's not a head-hunter," Duncan said, focusing on the important point, "and it looks like Haven really is a school, not a trap."

"At least not for us," Cassandra murmured. "She knew nothing of Methos?"

"When I described him, she said no one who looked like that was here."

"Would she lie?"

"She's honorable," Duncan said slowly, "but she would 'keep information confidential', if she thought it was necessary. And there are two other instructors here; they could be up to something. Urushan is local; he would have contacts."

"So our mission is unchanged: Assume everyone here is hostile while we search for Methos."

"Pretty much," he agreed. After Cassandra went to talk with Karla, the three women ascended the hill. Duncan spent the day scouring the countryside but found no trace of Methos. That afternoon at the stables, Duncan picked up a rake and shoveled out stalls.

When evening came, he climbed the hill then reluctantly handed over his katana to Karla. She locked it in the armory next to nearly twenty other swords, one of which belonged to Erianne. Duncan checked, but Methos's broadsword wasn't there. Cassandra wasn't carrying a weapon these days. "How many of these are yours?" he asked, for Karla had quite a collection.

"Seven. The students practice with different types."

Dinner was to be served in a large room with an enormous fireplace and a long wooden table set for thirteen. Cassandra was already seated in front of one of the deep windows on the south side, and she smiled and lifted her glass to Duncan in greeting even as she gave a tiny shake of the head. No sign of Methos so far.

Karla formally introduced the other instructors: Pivik, a petite woman from the island of Luzon who bowed but did not smile, and Urushan, the guard from earlier that day.

Urushan seemed friendlier than before, shaking Duncan's hand, then mentioning the migrating birds that might be seen in Armenia at this time of year. "Not so many as there used to be, alas."

Duncan took the opportunity to probe for age. "Have you lived in Armenia a long time?"

The quick smile was nearly hidden by the beard, and the answer "Most of my life" was vague. But he added, "I studied in Krakow and Venice, and traveled in Europe at times. And you?"

"I've traveled in Europe, too," Duncan replied, with just the same kind of vagueness and same kind of smile. The door to the right opened, and Duncan turned to see a woman in her sixties, backing into the room and carrying a large tray of food. A plain gray dress covered her thin frame, and she wore black stockings above sensible shoes.

"Excuse me," Urushan said and immediately went to hold the door. She smiled up at him merrily then placed the food on the sideboard. He followed her through the doorway to help, and Duncan wandered over to a small table in the corner that held a magnificent chess set carved in red onyx and white marble.

After a few moments the sideboard was laden with food, and Urushan returned to Duncan. "My daughter, Gohar," Urushan explained. "She is the housekeeper here and knows of immortals."

"And the villagers below?"

Urushan shook his head. "We keep to ourselves on this hill. They think we offer 'rehab' for the spoiled offspring of the rich." He looked down at the chess set. "Do you play?"

"A little," Duncan replied.

The smile returned and lingered. "Perhaps you and I should have a game."

Chess was almost as good as swordplay for revealing the character of a man. "We should," Duncan agreed. "After dinner?"

"Indeed," came the enthusiastic reply, and both of them were smiling now, for the challenge had been made and accepted, and each was wondering who would win.

Then the students began arriving, in pairs. "If we all come at once, it makes people dizzy," the student named Joo Hee told him. She pushed a strand of her straight black hair behind her ear. "One person threw up."

"How many students are there?" Duncan asked.

"The new girl makes eight," said a blonde Australian named Aspen, who looked about twenty-five years old. "It's like season seven of Buffy around here."

"It's like what?" Joo Hee asked, saving Duncan the trouble.

"Sorry," Aspen said. "Video series, before your time."

All video series were after Duncan's time. References like that used to be just books, but over the last century, he'd had to get used to people mentioning talkies, radio shows, movies, TV shows, songs, and internet memes. It was hard to keep up.

"I'm the oldest student," Aspen explained to Duncan, shaking his hand with a firm grip and a straight-on gaze. "Sixty-seven come December. Here to learn to use the saber instead of just the epee."

"We call her Granny," said a girl who seemed to still be in her teens. She'd come in with Erianne.

Chonglin, one of the male students, arrived along with Sofie, the immortal that Duncan and Kate had met in Ireland a dozen years ago. "Sofie!" Duncan said in glad surprise. "I didn't expect to see you here."

"What?" she asked with brittle cheerfulness. "Surprised I still have my head?"

"Sofie," Aspen said in warning.

"Right." Sofie nodded with mock penitence then leaned in toward Duncan to confide, "That's not something we say in polite company. And immortals are always polite."

Defensive wise-assery, Methos had called this technique after a twenty-two-year-old Richie Ryan had given an excellent demonstration. Methos was good at it, too. So was Connor. It was best to ignore it completely, so Duncan simply said, with sincere warmth, "I'm glad to see you, Sofie." He was surprised she still had her head. Not many immortals, especially female ones, survived their first twenty years.

Sofie looked confused then backed off and nodded, even managing a smile. "Thanks. It's good to see you, too, Duncan."

"Have you been in touch with Kate?" Duncan asked, because Kate had been worried about her erstwhile student.

"I told her I was here," Sofie replied. "She said she'd come visit soon, now that she's back on planet."

"Good," Duncan said. "Maybe I'll get to see her, too."

The last pair of students arrived then Karla rang a bell, and everyone sat down to eat. Duncan didn't learn much useful for the search for Methos during dinner, but he could see that the students liked their teachers and each other (mostly). Two had come on the recommendations of friends who had attended … and made it out alive.

"We escort students to the train station," Karla mentioned. "It's a good outing for us all."

The school was bonafide. At least he didn't have that to worry about. Duncan relaxed and enjoyed the food.

After the meal, Cassandra took him aside for a quiet word. "The key won't tell us anything here; we're too close. Reach out with your quickening tonight; see if you can find Methos that way. I'll do the same." She left with most of the other students, though Joo Hee and Karla stayed to watch his chess match with Urushan.

At the beginning of each game, Urushan played defensively, but he didn't hesitate to sacrifice a piece when it resulted in an advantage, and once he was ready, his attack was fierce. Duncan lost the first game and won the second, and they both agreed it was too late to play one more.

Urushan stood and shook his hand heartily, with a grip that could easily go beyond firm and into strong. "Tomorrow?" Urushan offered. "If you come at one-thirty, you can join the fencing class first."

"Perhaps we teachers can spar," Karla suggested. "A demonstration for the students."

And another contest between him and Urushan. Duncan smiled again. "I'll be here," he promised.

He thanked Karla for the hospitality, retrieved his sword, then went down the hill. He stopped at the ancient pagan shrine by the bridge, held the key in his hand, and reached out to Methos, hoping to find some trace of his friend.

All was darkness.

Cassandra tried seeking Methos that night, but the nearby presence of eleven other immortals was overwhelming, and she quickly closed down. She tried again before dawn when everyone was likely to be asleep, but the interference was still too great. The forest should be better. She could ask Duncan to watch over her.

As she was crossing the outer courtyard, Karla came through the gate, her cheeks glowing and her clothes spangled with water droplets from the mist, probably just finishing her morning run. "Good morning, Cassandra," Karla said. "Off for a walk?"

"Just visiting Duncan. I'll be back in time to help Gohar prepare the midday meal."

"She might like help with the shopping tomorrow," Karla suggested. "It's market day."

Cassandra smiled. "Certainly."

"It doesn't bother you, does it?" she asked, stripping off her gloves and tucking them in her pocket.

"Cooking? Or buying food?"

Karla nodded at the gate. "Leaving holy ground without a weapon in your hand."

Cassandra shrugged one shoulder and smiled slightly, a wordless admission.

"Or is it because you have other weapons?"

"We all do," Cassandra replied.

"Not like you." Karla took a step closer. "I've heard of you: the witch in the woods. The siren."

"And I've heard of you," Cassandra replied, seeing the woman for the first time in the true light of day. With her feet firmly on stone Karla stood, slender and elegant as a blade. A narrow lance of sunlight gave her hair a halo of fire, and tiny gems of water glittered on her hands and arms. "The lady of the lake," Cassandra named her then added softly, "The keeper of the sword. The morrigan."

Karla shrugged, just as Cassandra had recently done, but dismissed the truth with words: "Old legends, retold and revised and misunderstood over the years."

Cassandra knew well how stories could change over the years, how much could be lost. How much people hungered to be heard. "I heard the tale when it was new."

"Did you?" Karla's eyes narrowed in suspicion, and she challenged, "And are you the keeper of the tales?"

The keeper. She had not heard that title in that way for untold years. Cassandra blinked back sudden tears, for so the Lady of the Temple had named her, back before it all went wrong, before she had betrayed her vows. Could it be? Perhaps not all had been lost, perhaps the ancient order could be revived. Perhaps…

"I am a Keeper," Cassandra proclaimed, dredging words from a chant not heard or spoken in thousands of years. "Charged through the ages, from hand to hand and heart to heart, to guard and protect and to serve."

"I am a Keeper," Karla replied, her words husky with wonder. "Charged through the ages." They stood and stared at each other, motionless in the growing light of dawn. "I thought I was the only one left," Karla finally said.

"So did I," Cassandra said, and a laugh came through the tears as they caught each other's hands and held on. "Do you still have your talisman?"

"Not here, but I know where it is," Karla replied. "Do you have yours?"

"No. It was destroyed." Burned at the fall of Troy with a thousand other treasures and thousands of lives.

"And you didn't remake it?"

"I couldn't protect it," Cassandra explained. Roland had begun his hunt, and so she had hidden those memories away, forced herself to forget, to safeguard at least one secret from that man. "It seemed the safest choice."

"I suppose," Karla acknowledged.

"Perhaps there are other Keepers still," Cassandra suggested.

"The charge was not always passed down, and stories are forgotten and lost," Karla warned.

"Or simply silent," Cassandra countered. "I haven't asked anyone if they were a Keeper in ages. Have you?"

"No. Nor have I looked for any of the talismans." Karla flexed empty hands. "But I will."

"Would you like help?"

* * *

><p><em><strong>The Valley, 15 October 2053<strong>_

* * *

><p>Duncan opened his door to Cassandra and winced at the early morning sunlight, even filtered through the shreds of mist that lingered in the valley. The migraine from last night's efforts to find Methos was nearly gone, except for the intermittent flashes in his right eye.<p>

"Anything?" Cassandra asked as she came in.

"No, just darkness. You?"

"No. There are too many immortals, too close, in the monastery. Can you stand guard for me while I try in the forest?"

"Of course. I'll get my boots." But all the trip to the forest provided was the sense that Methos was very near. "Damn," Duncan swore in frustration then ran his hands through his hair. "Guess we get to play detective now."

"Knock on doors?" Cassandra suggested.

"Or look for holes," Duncan said thoughtfully. "If he's underground, that would explain the darkness I saw."

"Good idea," Cassandra said. "You look for caves; I'll look for cellars and tunnels at Haven."

But Duncan didn't find Methos that morning, and when he climbed the hill to Haven that afternoon, Cassandra reported the same. "Where's the fencing class?" Duncan asked, and Cassandra pointed him to the old chapel, now converted into an exercise room. Everyone from the school was there: three instructors and eight students. Duncan brought the number to twelve. He was glad to see ear plugs as well as face masks available; swordfighting was loud. At an invitation from Karla, Duncan joined in as teacher. For the next hour they worked with students on repetitive drill then paired off for attack and counter moves.

Then everyone moved to the edge of the hall while Duncan demonstrated a kata. Next, Karla brought over wooden swords, and she and Duncan sparred. Her style was straightforward, but Duncan found it unnerving to face an opponent who didn't smile, didn't joke, didn't seem to see him as a person at all. The She-Wolf was all business when she had a sword in her hand.

Pivik and Chonglin, both practitioners of muay thai, showed how dangerous elbows could be, and then Urushan and Duncan picked up wooden swords. After the first few exchanges, Duncan stopped holding back, because if Karla was a wolf, Urushan was a bear: observant and patient, faster than he looked, and immensely strong. When Karla called a halt at the end of the class, Urushan and Duncan were both battered, temporarily bruised, and breathing hard. If they'd used real blades, they would have been bloody as well.

"What's your weapon of choice?" Duncan asked Urushan after they'd cleaned up and were walking to the dining hall to play chess.

"I had a Bidenhänder I liked, but you can't hide one under a coat."

Duncan nodded. "That's true for claymores, too."

"A battle axe is satisfying," Urushan said next. "And a flail is good to have. For the dueling, a broadsword, I suppose, though I'm fond of the saber. You?"

In other words, he was comfortable with weapons of many kinds. Duncan was, too, but he didn't want to name them all. "Broadswords are good," he agreed. Methos had a beautiful one.

"Ever try the Japanese blades? The katana and the wakizashi?"

"Yes," Duncan said, "I like those, too." They entered the building, ducking their heads a little to get under the lintel, and went to the dining hall. Duncan lost the chess game, and they didn't have any luck in finding Methos that day.

The next morning dawned cool and clear, and the village was busy with people all around. "It's market day," Cassandra explained when she knocked on his door at dawn, for she had come down from the hill. "Aspen and Erianne and Gohar came down, too."

"Not Urushan?"

"Gohar said he went to visit friends this morning. He should be back by noon."

Duncan got dressed and went outside to greet the day. But when they returned to the hamlet, instead of busy market stalls, they found a trial going on in front of the schoolhouse. Aspen and Erianne and Gohar were at the back of the crowd. "It's a rape trial," Erianne explained in hushed excitement.

"I heard that these people are from the village in the next valley over," Aspen put in. "They come here for judging."

"Don't they have police?" Duncan asked. "Or judges in town?"

"We take care of our own," Gohar said stolidly. "As we have done through the ages, so we do now again."

Just like the Highlands, Duncan reflected. When travel was hard and the government wasn't trusted or was non-existent, justice was homegrown.

"Ashkhen went to Yerevan for guard training ten years ago," Gohar said, pointing to a woman with short hair and dressed in grey. Ashkhen was standing just behind the man and the woman who were tied to chairs on the schoolhouse porch, shaded from the sun. Her hand was on her weapon, and her eyes were always on the move.

"One of yours?" Duncan asked Cassandra very quietly.

"Phinyx trained," Cassandra confirmed but added, "One of theirs."

"Ashkhen has trained others since then," Gohar said then added with pride, "Urushan helps when he can, as is his duty."

It was one of the quickest trials Duncan had ever seen. An older couple, he with a gray beard and she all in black with white hair, stepped forward then took turns asking the seated woman questions. A blue light shone steadily upon her face throughout.

"What's that light?" Aspen asked.

"The light of truth," Gohar said. "It comes from the Stone of St. Peter. They place the circlet upon your head, and the light goes out if you lie. Usually, we keep it hidden from outsiders, but this morning Urushan said people at Haven were permitted to see it."

After a few more questions from the couple, Ashkhen took a silver circlet from the woman's head and placed it on the man's. Then the couple started talking to him. The blue light shone upon his face at first, then it disappeared.

The crowd murmured, and Gohar spat on the ground. "They just asked him if she protested. He said no."

The questions continued, more intently now. The blue light came and went and then stayed. The watching crowd gave a long, hissing sigh.

"He just admitted he forced her," Gohar explained. "He is guilty."

"And that's it?" Duncan asked in disbelief. "A blue light?"

"The Stone of St. Peter is never wrong," Gohar huffily informed him.

"Wish we had one of those in our town," Aspen said fervently.

Cassandra was up on her tiptoes, trying to see more of the crowd. The woman on the porch was being released from her chair. Duncan asked Gohar, "How long have you been using this 'light of truth'?"

"Almost a thousand years. It is a holy relic, kept in the monastery since the Second Crusade. When the Soviets came, the monastery closed, and now we keep it hidden."

"What if the accuser was lying?" Aspen wanted to know.

"Then he would pronounce sentence upon her," Gohar answered.

"Do you mean—"

"Hush," Gohar ordered, for now the older woman was asking a question and the woman on the porch answered with just one word. Duncan's Armenian was minimal, but that word he knew: Death.

She had just pronounced sentence upon him.

The rapist started yelling, curses by the sound of it. Ashkhen shot him in the back with her stun gun. He fell silent and limp, but he was still aware. He was untied, carried off the porch and across the village square to a grassy space near to the church. A cluster of older women, all dressed in black, surrounded him and hid him from sight. The accusing woman joined the circle, and a wordless chanting began as they circled the prone figure, an eerie dance of women bending up and down.

"What are they doing?" Duncan asked.

"If the sentence is death, the grandmothers execute the rapist," Gohar explained. "The victim may join them, if she chooses."

"Right now?"

Gohar's hand went up, then dropped palm down. "It is done."

The women in black had already dispersed, wiping their knives clean as they walked, and the body of the rapist lay bloody on the ground. Two men picked up shovels and started digging a grave in the churchyard, and everyone else just walked away. Gohar went too, off to the market to buy onions and butter and eggs.

"Crikey," Aspen said softly, and Erianne was holding her hand to her mouth in shock.

Duncan blinked in disbelief then turned to Cassandra, who seemed perfectly calm. She lifted her eyebrows at him, and he challenged, "Was this rape taken 'seriously enough' for you, Cassandra?"

"I'm not in favor of capital punishment for rape, Duncan, as you know. But mortals deal with mortal crime."

"By using a blue light?" he demanded. "It's like … studying entrails or relying on trial by fire."

"Or divining by looking at ripples in water?" Cassandra asked pointedly. "Seeing the future in the flames?"

He'd never been comfortable with her witchcraft, but at least it hadn't been used to sentence a man to death.

"How about living forever and quickenings and all?" Aspen put in. "That's bizarre, too, but here we are. Besides, he did confess."

"No one even hit him," Erianne said. She sounded surprised.

"It's…" Duncan tried to explain what bothered him. "It was so fast, with no evidence. I'm used to a court of law. Due process."

"You want lawyers?" Aspen asked incredulously then shrugged. "Seemed like due process and a court to me. And the bad guy's done for. I'm stoked."

The three women walked away, and Duncan was left standing alone. He went to help the gravediggers, and after the body was buried, Duncan stood at the graveside and said a silent prayer for the man's soul. Then he went to talk to Urushan and find out what the hell this "light of truth" really was.

And if it really were legitimate, maybe Duncan could borrow it to help find out where Methos was.

* * *

><p><em><strong>The Garden of Haven<strong>_

* * *

><p>"Did you know the villagers have a truth stone?" Cassandra asked Karla in the garden of Haven.<p>

Karla paused then yanked another weed from around the onions. "I had no idea." She sat back on her heels and squinted up at the sky. "A keeper and a talisman both. Quite the coincidence."

"I don't believe in coincidences," Cassandra said. "Gohar said the truth stone was a 'holy relic' that had been kept here at the monastery since the Second Crusade."

"Apparently, I should have asked Urushan for the historic tour when I arrived." Karla got to her feet and dusted off her hands. "Let's do that now."

"He's not here," Cassandra said. "Gohar said he went to talk to friends."

"Then let's talk to her," Karla replied.

Gohar was in the kitchen, her hands busy kneading dough. She looked up at Cassandra to say, "The carrots need washing then peeling then cutting into rounds. We won't need many today; Sofie and Chonglin went hiking, and Erianne and Aspen decided to eat in the village."

Cassandra picked up a knife and industriously scraped off long orange peels of carrot skin. "Can you tell us about the light of truth?" she asked. "I told Karla a little, but she'd like to know more. And so would I."

"Like what?"

"How old it is?" Karla asked.

"An angel gave it to St. Peter when he was sharing the gospel, so he could see into the hearts of men. Two thousand years, it must be."

It was likely to be older than that. Cassandra had seen one in the temple of the Muses before Troy fell.

"People call it Petra Petri, St. Peter's Stone," Gohar continued. "It's smooth and white, like the shell of an egg, and it's shaped like a disc with a hole in the center."

"Was Urushan the one to bring it here?"

Gohar nodded as she shaped the dough into a loaf with practiced hands. "From the Holy Land itself, he told me."

Cassandra and Karla exchanged a glance. Perhaps yet another Keeper still existed. Or perhaps Urushan did not know the history of what he had. Either way, Cassandra was definitely going to find out soon.

* * *

><p><strong><em>To be continued in "Justice" - wherein Urushan tells a tale and extends an invitation<br>_**

_Karla Morgan is featured in my story "The Guardian", which is stored at s/6517185/1/The-Guardian_


	30. Justice

_Author's Note: Due to feedback from readers, this chapter was revised and reposted on 27 Nov 2013. The plot hasn't changed, but some of the discussion was altered, and a few things were added and some were taken away.**  
><strong>_

* * *

><p><strong>Holy Isle, Scotland, 2053<strong>

* * *

><p>As Friar Liam knelt in silence during his morning devotions in the chapel facing the sea, he was reminded of a sermon he had heard when he had visited the holy city of Rome years ago. The priest had described the world as a lake and God's love as a rowboat, ready to pick up people lost overboard. But to Friar Liam, God's love was the lakeshore, always in front of you and behind you no matter which direction you went, and always ready to take in whatever swam or washed ashore.<p>

A year ago, that metaphor had taken a literal turn.

"I found him on the shore last week," Mrs. Donnell had said. "Not a stitch of clothing on him, so I gave him some of my Ned's old things. I had to make a patch for his missing eye. He doesn't eat much, or talk, but he works hard. I thought he could live here, at the centre?"

"Of course," Friar Liam had said. The centre was home to many strays, humanity's flotsam and jetsam and debris. The currents of time and trouble brought many people here. Himself included, along with three ancient Buddhist monks, five brothers of his own order, a few Gaians who came and went with the sun, a writer, and a woman who talked to seals. Most left, but some people found a home. "What's his name?"

"He said to call him John."

* * *

><p>John said little and worked hard, as Mrs. Donnell had promised. He rebuilt stone walls, worked in the fields, and went fishing when the weather was fine. He took over the smithy, repairing door hinges, making hooks, and fixing tools that had lain useless for years. He went to Mass every morning, but he never took Holy Communion or said the responses or sang the songs. John never came for Reconciliation, either, though Friar Liam had invited him numerous times, and John never came to the movie nights in the hall. Whatever burden he was carrying, he would not set it down.<p>

So in the summer, when a pretty young woman named Chelle came all the way from France and asked to see John (though not by that name), Friar Liam suspected it would not go well. He trudged over to the smithy, where John was hammering iron, his forearms and face speckled with soot.

"Tell her I'm sorry," John said, carefully arranging coals over the glowing iron bar, his head down and his face turned away. "Tell her I can't see her anymore."

"Anymore?" Chelle demanded when Friar Liam went back to the visitor's parlor. "Does he mean ever?"

Friar Liam didn't have an answer for that. "He said he was sorry."

"Oh, he did; did he?" Her eyes narrowed as she demanded, "Where is he?"

"I can't be telling you that."

"Then I'll find someone who can," she announced and walked out of the building.

Friar Liam caught up with her, but not before one of the monks had pointed her in the direction of the smithy. He protested, but she kept walking, and soon they reached the top of the little hill that looked down into the vale where the smithy lay. She'd taken but two steps on the path, when at the smithy a dirty hand reached out and pulled the door shut with a bang. There was another thud when the crossbar dropped into place. Then the wooden shutters to the windows were closed as well.

Chelle marched up and pounded on the door, and when no one answered, she yelled, "Connor! I damn well know you're in there, and you damn well know I'm here." She pounded again. "Connor!"

"Chelle," John replied through the shut door, with the same gentleness in his voice that Friar Liam's mother had used when she told him that his dog had died. "I'm sorry that I didn't meet you in Paris. I should have sent you a letter."

"Damn right you should have."

"I'm sorry," he said again.

"OK." Chelle reached up and put one palm flat on the door, leaning her forehead against the weathered oak. "So let me in."

"No." That word had no gentleness in it at all.

"Connor—"

"I am truly sorry, Chelle, but I cannot see you anymore. Please go away."

"Are you fucking kidding me?" she demanded. "You know I just came all the way from Paris, right?"

His only answer was a rhythmic pounding of a hammer on a hot iron rod.

She yelled some more and pleaded then cursed at "Connor" again. The hammering continued, steady as a heartbeat, pausing now and again to heat the rod anew. Friar Liam tried to get Chelle to leave, but she shook him off and cursed him, too.

"Watch your mouth, Chelle!" John ordered from inside then said more calmly, "Go along, Friar Liam. There's no reason for you to stay. I'll deal with it."

"Deal with _it_?" Chelle snarled at the closed door. "You mean: deal with me."

Friar Liam went back to the center. He mentioned the unhappy couple to the Blessed Mother when he said the rosary that afternoon, and he mentioned them again in his prayers at Vespers. Rain came, cold and stinging, and just before sunset he walked to the smithy again. The hammering had stopped and no lights were on, but Chelle was still there, a huddled shadow near the door. She was dripping wet and blessedly silent.

"There's a bed for you in the guest room at the centre," Friar Liam told her then tempted her further, for she was like to catch her death of cold if she stayed at the doorstep all night. "Hot water to wash with. Supper and tea."

In the dim light, he saw the flash of a smile as she asked, "How about coffee?"

He shook his head but offered, "We have whisky. And beer."

Chelle sighed, laid her hand on the door one more time, then nodded and went with him up the hill through the cold rain.

When the dawn came seven hours later, John was already gone. "I saw him take the boat out at first light," said one of the Buddhist monks over breakfast. "He's gone west."

Friar Liam crossed himself, for though the monk didn't know it and hadn't meant it, going west was the final voyage of a soul.

"That girl who came to see him yesterday put on quite a show this morning," said the writer. "Stripped off every stitch of clothing and stood on the headland, her arms spread wide."

"She was talking to the birds," said the woman who talked to seals. "You could see her move with one of the gulls, turning with the wind."

"I didn't see that," said the writer. "I thought she was drunk, especially after she fell down."

The woman shook her head. "She went too far and lost herself. When I got to her she was still unconscious. She woke up white-faced and shaky. I put her to bed."

And there Chelle stayed all morning. She emerged at midday, still pale. She thanked Friar Liam for his help and apologized for her behavior the day before.

Friar Liam nodded gravely. "It is frustrating to come so far and be disappointed. Perhaps later, John may change his mind."

Her eyes were shadows of pain. "He won't." Chelle left on the ferry that afternoon.

When Friar Liam had walked past the smithy the next morning, it had been silent and closed. The door had opened easily, for it was unbarred. All the tools had been oiled and neatly put away, the forge emptied of ash, and the floor swept clean. A slightly crumpled envelope had lain on a workbench, apparently left by Chelle, its block letters reading: "For Connor. From Cassandra."

But as the weeks had gone by and summer faded into fall, the letter lay untouched, for John never returned. Friar Liam lived his days and nights as the Rule ordained: in obedience and community with charity and hope. And every morning, including today, he prayed for John to leave the troubled waters of his soul and come fully ashore into God's love, wherever that might be.

* * *

><p><strong>Haven, 16 October 2053<strong>

* * *

><p>"We want to know more about the truth stone, Urushan," Karla said as soon as lunch was over and Pivik had taken all the students from the dining hall for a class.<p>

Ever since the trial of the rapist earlier that morning, Duncan had been wanting to say the same thing. He moved to sit next to Cassandra at the table, but stayed quiet, letting Karla run the show.

Urushan waited until Duncan sat down. "Of course." He broke off a small piece of his roll but set it down untasted. "Nine hundred years ago, I joined the knights of Christ. We set out to reclaim the Holy Land from the infidels. In the hills of Palestine, a group of us left the army encampment to visit a nearby town. We rode out in full armor , banners flying, so certain of our cause and our righteousness and our strength." He touched the piece of bread but still did not eat. When he looked up, his eyes were staring into the past.

"We were fools. We had just arrived, and we did not understand the land or the people or the heat. We became lost, grew sick with thirst, and were attacked by bandits. Most of us were killed; I was wounded. I crawled away, then got to my feet and somehow reached a hermitage. The holy man gave me water to drink.

"But as I said, I was a fool. I had been followed by the bandits, and they attacked again. This time, I died. My first death." He took the bread and ate it slowly, while everyone was silent, probably remembering (as Duncan was) the first time they had died.

"When I revived," Urushan said, "I had been stripped of my weapons and armor and money, and the bandits were gone. The hermit said it was a miracle, that God had sent me to him in his hour of need, for he had been mortally wounded; the bandits had simply left him to die. Then the hermit told me of the Stone of Truth and where it was hidden. He charged me to keep it safe and use it always in the service of justice. I held his hand as we prayed together, and then he died.

"I took the stone and made my way back to the encampment. The next day, I saw Karla; she was one of Queen Eleanor's Amazons."

Duncan had read of Eleanor of Aquitaine's fanciful outfits for herself and for her three hundred female companions. "Did you actually fight in that crusade?" Duncan asked Karla.

"Yes, but I dressed as a man, as I did in the first and the fifth crusades."

"Karla and I had met before," Urushan continued, "but this time, just the sight of her made me light-headed, and not in the normal way between a woman and a man."

"I told him what he was, what we were," Karla said. "Then I told him about the Game."

Urushan smiled wryly and rubbed at his neatly clipped black beard with the back of his hand. "My reviving did not sound like a miracle from God anymore, but the hermit had entrusted the stone to me, and my oath still held."

"Are you the keeper of the stone?" Cassandra asked.

"No one can keep the stone, for it belongs to God," he proclaimed, with the total conviction of a man who truly believed. "I am but its guardian, honored to be chosen for this sacred trust." Urushan's eyes glowed with certainty. "The Stone of Truth helps lead us to justice. This is the duty I was born to, as were all my family, for I am a noble of the House of Mehnuni. Since ancient days the people of my house have been servants of Mihr."

Duncan remembered Cassandra sounding that way, when she had spoken of the Prophecy and the Highland foundling she had waited centuries for. He glanced at her, but she was watching Urushan through half-closed eyes.

Urushan came down from his soapbox to explain: "Mihr is the yazata—what you might call an angel—of heavenly light and truth."

Duncan had had reason to study yazatas, along with other figures from Zoroastrianism. Mihr was also known as Mithras, the sun god worshipped in dark caves by Roman soldiers, and Plutarch had written that Mithras was the mediator between light and dark, between Ohrmazd and Ahriman. Duncan knew what it was to balance on the edge between good and evil. He wondered what kind of balancing Urushan had done, how dangerous he was.

"You've kept this Stone of Truth hidden for centuries, Urushan," Karla said. "Why do you tell us of it now?"

"Because I believe that God has sent you in my hour of need."

Faith could not be argued with, not matter how illogical it seemed, and true believers could become fanatical in pursuit of their cause. Duncan needed to know how far Urushan would go. "What makes this an 'hour of need', Urushan?"

"The world is changing, and it is a time for decisions. Truth is revealed to each of us in a unique way, and one person cannot see the entire picture." Urushan leaned forward, earnest and intense. "I need your help; I cannot serve justice alone."

Duncan knew that feeling.

"Are you asking us to take the stone to other places and set up trials, or to bring people here, or something else?" Karla asked.

Urushan steepled his hands together, his fingertips just touching his lips. "Even when we know the truth, justice is not always clear. I would ask you to help me find the way."

"From what I saw, the local people do not need our help," Cassandra observed.

"The stone works on immortals, too," Urushan told them.

Which immortals would Urushan want to use it on? And why? Duncan pushed back his chair and stood. "Show us."

Urushan also rose, accepting this challenge with a serene smile. "Gladly." He told them, "It is not on Holy Ground; we should get our swords."

They got flashlights, too, for Urushan was leading them to a cave. The door to it was hidden in the back of a closet in a corridor beneath the old chapel. The air felt chilly, and steps disappeared into the darkness. "Be careful," Urushan said. "The steps are uneven. And please pull both doors shut behind us to hide the way." Then he turned on his torch and started down. Karla followed him and then Cassandra.

Duncan went last, shutting first the closet door and then the door to the cave. He stayed a few paces behind, for the steps were indeed uneven and the ceiling low, and descending with no handrails led to careful movements, bumped elbows and heads, and muttered curses. Finally they stopped going down, and the corridor became wider and smoother. Then the tunnel became a cave, and they walked between stalagmites as stalactites disappeared into the darkness above. The air was cool and clammy, and Duncan was glad of his jacket.

Widely spaced light bulbs on the walls anticipated their passage and extinguished themselves after they'd gone by, and Duncan put his torch away. When they passed an opening to yet another passageway, he heard water flowing. Eventually, in a large cavern, they came to an artificial structure, as big as a train boxcar. Electric cables snaked across the floor and disappeared into its wall.

Urushan unlocked its grey metal door. The box-room held a long table, chairs for a dozen people, video monitors with old-fashioned keyboards that had a full set of keys, and two sets of bunk beds along the far wall. A small cooking area and closets were built in. Another door was marked as a lavatory.

"Well equipped," Karla commented, looking around.

"We've used these caves for centuries, especially during wars."

"And the stone?" Duncan asked.

Urushan unlocked one of the cabinets and took out a small wooden box. "Before the Soviets came and closed the churches, the stone was kept in a golden reliquary, set with jewels and lapis lazuli." He set the box on the table and flipped open the lid. Inside lay a plain white stone shaped like a very large coin or a medal. It had a hole in the center, about the size for a pencil to slide through. Thin white threads held the stone to a headband that was elaborately woven of cotton string.

Karla reached for it first. "It's heavier than I thought." She passed it to Cassandra, who slipped it out of the headband and rolled it between her fingers.

"It's well balanced," Cassandra noted. "If it had a rod, I might think it was a whorl for a drop spindle."

Karla, now sitting at the table, leaned her chin on her hand. "What might it spin?"

Cassandra offered it to Duncan, and he took it in the palm of his hand. The stone was cool and smooth. Such a little thing to be used in deciding to kill a man. "Where does the blue light come from?" he asked.

"From the rims," Urushan answered.

Duncan peered closer and saw shiny flecks on the edges, both the outer rim and the center hole. Crystals? They were used in lasers, so maybe something like that was happening here. Connor or Kate might be able to figure it out; they were engineers. "People just … wear it, and it knows?" Duncan asked.

"Yes."

He put it back into its headband then fastened that around his head, feeling a bit silly. A bluish spot appeared on the table. Urushan brought out a mirror, so that Duncan could see the blue glow clearly on his face. Then Karla and Cassandra started asking him things, and he answered each question two different ways: once with the truth and once with a lie. He didn't feel anything, no tingles, no heat, no sense of anything happening in his brain, but the light was never wrong. He took the stone off and looked at it again. It was warmer now, closer to body temperature, just as any stone might be. "There's no power source, no moving parts. How does this work?"

"You are a child of the Enlightenment, I see," Urushan observed with a tolerant smile. "Karla and I are children of an earlier time, before reason supplanted faith." He turned to Cassandra. "And you?"

Cassandra's half-smile hinted at mystery and power but gave no information as to her age. "I believe in many things that cannot be touched or seen. Magic, if you will."

"Miracles," Urushan suggested.

Cassandra bowed her head in assent, and Karla seemed perfectly willing to accept it all as true. Duncan wasn't. He examined the stone more closely, but that didn't tell him anything new. He didn't understand it, and he didn't trust it. He certainly didn't like it. He put the stone back on the table. "Do you know anything about this, Cassandra?" he asked, because she seemed much too calm.

"I have heard of such things, and I saw another truth stone, years before. That one was gray."

"There is another?" Urushan said in surprise.

"There was," she corrected. "The gray truth stone was destroyed, but there may be others left. In times past, they were used to separate truth from falsehood, to authenticate solemn vows, to help find justice."

"And so is this stone still used," Urushan intoned.

"And you want to use it on immortals," Karla said. "Why? How? We don't have immortal courts; we fight one-on-one."

"Some of us fight," Urushan pointed out. "Not all of us are capable. Thus, we must rely on the strong to enforce the rules. This means bullies can continue unchecked until someone is brave enough to face them and skilled enough to defeat them."

"A hero." Cassandra slipped the stone out of the headband again, and held the naked stone in the palm of her hand. She ran her finger around the top of it, as if she were trying to make a wine glass sing, and the hole in the center glowed pale blue while the edges flickered. "Yet heroes, even immortals ones, don't last forever. They become weary or corrupted by the endless fighting and death. Eventually, of course," she said, setting the stone on edge and giving it a spin, so that it looked like a white orb traveling across the table, "the hero is killed."

Duncan knew that story. Methos had recited it often enough as a cautionary tale. Though he didn't say "You're going to die" or "Someone will kill you." It was always: "You're going to get yourself killed." Even worse, when an immortal died, his power went to the victor. Whoever defeated an immortal hero could become damn near impossible to kill.

The stone went into its final erratic spin, wobbling on the table, then tipping over so that its rim clattered quicker and quicker until, abruptly, it stopped.

"That is the Game," Karla said, sounding impatient. "We're supposed to kill each other."

"In duels, yes," Urushan agreed. "But what about murder? Killing new immortals or pre-immortals. Or someone who is unarmed."

"That's wrong," Duncan declared.

"So is using loved ones as hostages, or treating mortals as if they were disposable," Karla added. "Or targeting those who have much less skill with a sword than you."

Duncan nodded in agreement. "There's no honor in that."

"But there is a quickening," Cassandra pointed out. "And what do bullies care for honor?"

"Nothing," Karla replied then added matter-of-factly, "That's why we kill them."

"But we don't always get there in time," Duncan said, remembering too many dead immortals, too many weeping women, and too many children who would never laugh again. And young Sofie, twenty years ago, asking: Why didn't you stop him?

"Stopping them all would be impossible," Cassandra said. "Even mortals, with their police and judges, don't stop all the criminals."

"But they stop quite a few," Urushan said. "And deter countless more." He leaned forward, elbows on the table, and tossed out the question, "What if immortals had police?"

"Instead of heroes?" Duncan asked

"We'll always need heroes, Duncan," Cassandra told him with a smile.

She was trying to be reassuring and complimentary, he knew, but he didn't always want to be a hero. And he didn't want to die.

"Heroes and police," Urushan suggested. "And a court of justice. I am very interested in your thoughts on this. As I said, one person cannot serve justice alone."

"And you want to use that thing to find the truth," Duncan said, eyeing the stone with distaste.

"The truth stone tells you only what people believe to be true, not what is true," Urushan warned. "It's useful, certainly, but it's not necessary. After all, every society has a judicial system of some kind."

"Immortals don't," Duncan pointed out.

"Immortals aren't a society," Cassandra said sharply. "We're combatants in a 'war of every one against every one'. Thomas Hobbes described us perfectly in _The Leviathan _four hundred years ago: murderous individuals living in 'continual fear and danger of violent death'."

"True," Karla admitted, "but not our lives are all 'solitary, poor, nasty, brutish, and short'."

"Short for most," Cassandra replied. "And solitary for all."

True, more often than not. Duncan often had friends in his life, both mortal and immortal, and once he'd had a family, but many years he'd been alone.

"And nasty and brutish for many," Cassandra continued. "How many immortals friends have you buried?" She looked at each of them in turn while asking: "How many immortals have you killed?"

Duncan had stopped counting years ago.

"That is the Game," Karla repeated simply.

But it wasn't simple. By the rules of the Game, Duncan was allowed to kill every single immortal he met. No reason needed, no justification necessary. Just kill and kill and kill and kill.

He couldn't do that. He couldn't bring himself to take the lives of the weak and the young and those who meant him no harm, or to live a life without friends. So he killed only when necessary, only to stop the evil in the world. But even so, he was tired of killing. He was tired of deciding who lived and who died, of being the one to swing the blade.

What if, as Urushan said, that burden could be shared?

"Hobbes was describing total anarchy, and the Game does have two rules," Karla reminded everyone. "We don't fight on holy ground, and we fight only one-on-one."

"What if it's not a fight?" Cassandra asked. "What if it's murder, as Urushan described?"

Duncan immediately quoted his father: "'A warrior may kill, but only a man without honor will murder.' All Immortals have to fight, and so we all have to follow the warrior code."

"And when we don't?" Cassandra prompted.

Karla was the one to answer. "When people break rules or codes of behavior, there must be consequences, swift and certain, or the rules come to mean nothing."

Duncan knew that, but he wasn't always swift and he wasn't always certain, not anymore. He did what he could, as did Connor and Elena and others, but the world was too large. No individual could handle it all. An immortal police force could work together, serve as backup and intel, capture the "bad guy" and then … what? "How would you want this court of justice to work?" he asked. "With a judge or a jury?"

"I prefer a jury," Karla said. "Especially if you want to enforce an honor code, not just the two rules of the Game. Honor is complicated sometimes."

So was killing. What would a jury make of beheading a seven-year-old, as Connor had recently done? Or beheading a toddler, as Duncan had done two centuries before? Would mercy killing be allowed? "Who would make the rules?" he asked. "Where would they be written down?"

"Online?" Karla suggested. "Or, since each case is unique, evaluate each case on its own merits. That's what we do now."

And the results were inconsistent and unpredictable. Well, he considered with grim amusement, if this fantasy court of justice ever actually came to be, at least that part wouldn't change.

"Would you still want lawyers, Duncan?" Cassandra asked, with just enough sweetness to be tart.

"Advocates," Duncan corrected. "I wouldn't want to get tangled in a lot of 'whereas'es and 'therefore's, but the accused should have at least one person on their side."

"I hate to think who might have volunteered to advocate for the Kurgan," Cassandra said with a shudder. "And I would hate to have been assigned that job." She looked up again to declare, "The quickenings would need to be lost, not taken. No decent judicial system can let killing be a reward of any kind."

"That's true," Karla agreed.

"What would you do?" Duncan demanded. "Tie the condemned to the railroad tracks? Or hire mortals to do the killing?"

"A remotely controlled guillotine could do the job," Karla suggested.

Duncan gritted his teeth, remembering how Zachary had killed himself, alone in a barn with the jury-rigged blade of a plow. Warren Cochrane had used a more conventional design to sever his own head. The Watchers had nearly chopped off Fitzcairn's head with one, and during the French Revolution, Connor and Duncan had each lost friends to "Madame Guillotine".

"Being judged by a jury of your peers might be acceptable, if it's done carefully," Duncan allowed. "But being executed by them?" He shook his head. "No. We can't gang up on people, hold them down, and cut off their heads while they're defenseless. It's wrong."

Urushan tilted his chair back and looked Duncan over slowly, from his feet to his hair. "You prefer one on one. In combat."

"Yes, in combat," Duncan retorted hotly. "One on one. Those are the rules of the Game."

Urushan's chair slammed down as he leaned forward, elbows on the table and eyes intense. "Justice," he declared severely, "is not a game."

Duncan didn't like to argue with anyone about their deeply held beliefs, so he tried to calm Urushan down. "That's not what I—"

"It is not to be played at," Urushan interrupted. "Or trifled with or fought over."

"Then what?" Duncan demanded, giving up on the soft approach and learning forward himself. "Is it to be handed down from on high?"

"We shall all be judged some day." Urushan actually sounded at peace with that idea. "But here and now, we judge each other and then we enforce the rules. It would be best to do that upon due reflection and with deliberation and prayer. And we should not make such decisions alone."

Duncan has been making decisions that way for centuries. The Game left him no choice. "We have to."

"Do we?" Urushan challenged. "Or is that what you want to do?" He gazed into Duncan's eyes, searching, then his own eyes narrowed with a look of surprise and concern, and he drew back slightly, as if repulsed. "Do you like taking heads that much?"

"No, of course not! I don't—" Duncan stopped, took a breather, then tried to explain. "I don't kill people because I like taking heads." Certainly that wasn't the only reason he killed people. He wasn't that much of a headhunter, and neither was Connor. They only killed to protect others, or when they had to.

"I think this idea could mean more deaths, not fewer," Duncan warned. "Right now, if you challenge someone, your own life is on the line." That fact definitely helped keep his hunger for Quickenings in check. "So you make damn sure you've got good reason to make that challenge."

"_You _make damn sure, Duncan," Karla said. "And you put your life on the line, and you follow the honor code. But not everyone does. Some of us immortals are psychopaths or thugs. Some of us kill for fun."

"I know that." He wasn't a child, even if he was the youngest person in the room. "But if you could get rid of someone with no worries about your own safety, like with this court and remote-controlled guillotine idea, it becomes just too easy to kill."

"Whereas now," Cassandra drawled, "it's just too easy to die." She dropped the sarcasm and became earnest instead. "Immortals kill each other all the time. That's 'the Game.' But some of us kill mortals, too. If we didn't have to wait for a hero, if a court existed that could stop them—even if that court sometimes executed an immortal who perhaps didn't deserve to die—then I think saving thousands of mortal lives is worth losing a few of ours."

"Even if that immortal life were yours?" Urushan asked.

Cassandra's eyes were bleak with long-carried guilt and pain. "Especially if that life were mine."

She had once told Duncan that Roland had killed tens of thousands of people, sometimes forcing her to watch. For centuries she had been silent, frozen in fear, waiting for the prophecy to be fulfilled and her champion to arrive, while the killing went on and on. Duncan wondered if Connor carried that same sort of burden over what the Kurgan had done. "I want to kill him," Connor had once confided to Duncan as they had sat by a fire. "And I will. But while I'm preparing to face him, he's out there killing people, and I can't stop him. Not yet."

A court of justice, if such a thing had existed, could have executed Roland and the Kurgan centuries ago. It might have executed Kronos and Kalas and Ingrid and Sully and a lot of the people that Duncan had challenged and defeated.

And if a court took care of the evil immortals, Duncan wondered, who would be left for him to kill?

"So," Karla said into the silence, "we find ourselves asking the same question Hobbes asked centuries ago: How much freedom will we sacrifice for security?" She turned to look at Urushan with a steady, measuring gaze. He returned it in just the same way. "But Urushan is no longer asking this question," she said, not taking her gaze from his. "He has already created this court of justice, and he is, I believe, inviting us to join."

"Not just me," he demurred, "and the court is not quite as you described, but yes."

"Damn," Duncan muttered in a weird mix of curiosity and dismay. Designing an imaginary immortal justice system had been an interesting exercise. Having a real one meant the whole damn world had just changed.

Urushan turned to Duncan and Cassandra. "We prefer for people to hear about this from their own friends, but since you two were here, along with Karla, I am broaching it to all three of you."

"What if we say no?" Karla asked.

Urushan shrugged. "Jury duty is not compulsory."

"What if we decide no such jury should exist?" Duncan asked.

Urushan looked at him steadily. "I do not think any of you would track us down and kill us for what we are doing. Though if you decide to…" He shrugged again. "That is the Game. Unless you use dishonorable methods, in which case you would find yourself before the Tribunal, instead of part of it."

The calm certainty of that statement was more chilling than any threat would have been. "You call yourselves the Tribunal?" Duncan asked, not much caring for the name. The Watcher Tribunal had been high-handed and arrogant, and it had sentenced Joe Dawson to die.

Urushan turned his head with studied slowness. "Yes. A tribune is one who defends the rights of the people. It is an honorable title."

Karla blew out air in a slow and steady stream, a controlled exhalation, not a sigh."How many people has this Tribunal already executed?"

"Three."

"Who?" Duncan demanded, then, equally important: "Why?"

Urushan ticked them off on his fingers. "Anifiok, for the torture and killing of children and animals. Felice Martens, for using mortals as pawns in the Game. Mandeep Kapur, for hunting new immortals."

Duncan had killed other people guilty of those crimes.

Karla tapped her fingers on the table exactly once. "You had proof?"

"Police reports, witnesses, complaints, and, once we brought them in, their own testimony."

"They admitted it?" Cassandra said, sounding surprised.

"Anifiok and Kapur did; they seemed proud of their deeds. Martens denied everything, but with the truth stone, we knew when she was lying."

"She lied a lot," Duncan noted, remembering the elaborate ruse Felice had concocted to ingratiate herself with him sixty years earlier. She'd thrown herself off a building, pretended to be a new immortal, and set about befriending Duncan and seducing Richie, all in the same day. She'd counterfeited friendship as well as maps and pictures. Duncan wasn't sorry she was dead.

But he didn't like the idea of her being executed, and he wanted to know who had signed up for this thing. "What friends would have invited me?" he asked, going back to what Urushan had said a few minutes ago.

"Carl Robinson, perhaps. Or Katya Greenhill. They each sponsored you for membership."

Duncan could easily see how Katya and Carl, who'd each been mistreated by the law both as mortals and as immortals, would like being on the other side of the bench. Maybe too much.

"Who sponsored me?" Cassandra wanted to know.

"Katya also. And Halao Mahelona," Urushan told her.

Karla didn't bother to ask who had sponsored her. "I've been here for more than a year, Urushan. Why now?"

"I would have told you earlier, Karla," Urushan said, "but all recommendations are vetted by the group, and that takes time."

"What's 'the group'?" she asked, still sharp. "And what does 'vetting' entail?"

"The group is twenty-two tribunes, and vetting means we all learn of your background, and your sponsors speak on your behalf. Some tribunes might want to meet you in person. We vote, and if the group approves, your sponsor asks you if you would like to join."

So a bunch of people Duncan had never met knew more about him than he knew about them. Duncan didn't care to be spied on, but immortals often kept tabs on each other, and it wasn't as bad as what the Watchers had done. "Sounds like the Masons," he commented.

Urushan nodded. "Many of us have been in fraternal organizations. We started with five tribunes, and we invited friends whom we trusted. Now, we are specifically seeking older immortals, because we need your centuries of experience. Eventually, we hope all immortals—the decent ones—will be involved."

"Is this Tribunal like the system we just came up with?" Cassandra asked.

"Very similar, yes. It is a problem that seems to converge on one solution."

That sounded like something Connor or Methos would say. "Are you an engineer?" Duncan asked.

Urushan drew himself up in his chair. "I am a mathematician. I attended the University of Krakow, where I studied with Mikolaj Kopernik."

"Copernicus?" Duncan said, translating the name to the modern style.

Urushan nodded with pride and straightened his lapels. "Later, I worked with him on his tabulations of the motion of planets, and I contributed money for publishing his treatise _On the Revolutions of the Celestial Spheres_."

"Impressive," Duncan said, because it was, and because Urushan obviously thought so, too.

"He was an impressive man," Urushan said. "A great mind."

"I'll join the Tribunal," Cassandra announced.

Duncan turned to her in surprise. "Cassandra—"

"This is what we've been looking for, Duncan," she said, laying her hand atop his, her gaze compelling. "This is a dream come true."

It took him a second to catch her meaning: she thought Methos was being held by this Tribunal. She was almost certainly right: it all fit. If Cassandra were on the inside and Duncan on the outside they could approach from two directions, just as they had done with the Haven school.

Urushan blinked a little before saying, "Welcome, Cassandra! I am glad… if a little surprised at your quickness."

"As you say," Cassandra said with a smile, "it is a time of decisions. Is there an oath?"

"There is. And an orientation. Karla and Duncan, if you wish to leave now…"

Karla didn't interrupt her measuring stare of Cassandra as she said, "I'd like to learn more."

"So would I," Duncan said. "I'd like to stay."

"Of course." Urushan drew himself up to announce: "Now I would like you to meet some other members of the Tribunal."

Karla smiled slightly. "They're already waiting, aren't they?"

"Yes."

"Always organized," she murmured before asking: "Who are they?"

"You know two already: the students Sofie and Chonglin."

"Did you recruit them at Haven?" she demanded, as protective as a mother hen.

"No, I met them through the Tribunal several years ago; later I suggested they come here to Haven to learn. The other two tribunes are Isadora, who was Swiss originally and now lives in Rome, and Tunji, who is of the Yoruba people and lives in Nigeria."

Duncan shoved back his chair and stood. "Let's go meet them." Though everyone was supposedly friendly, Duncan didn't want to be in that box of a room when they arrived. He loosened his scabbard as he went out into the cavern, and he noticed that Karla had done the same.

He staggered a bit as the sensation of four immortals flooded through him. Urushan stepped forward smiling with hands open and introduced them all as friends. Duncan nodded to Sofie and Chonglin then more formally to Tunji, whom Duncan had never met before. Tunji was tall, with dark brown skin and horizontal scarification tattoos on his cheeks.

Duncan took a longer look at Isadora, for he'd known her by two different names: once as Countess Ludmilla Albertina Katushka Tcheka of Hungary and once as Reagan Cole. She'd been a bounty hunter both times. "Reagan?" he said in delight, and she kissed him on both cheeks and then on the mouth in a way that made both Cassandra and Karla lift their eyes to the heavens as if in prayer. Duncan ignored them and held onto Reagan's hands. She was a redhead now; she'd been a blonde half a century ago, and a brunette one hundred seventy years before that. She was always very pretty. "I thought you were killed in the DC bombing," he said.

"Got out a few hours before it hit," she said. "My quarry had skipped town, and I followed."

"And are you the bounty hunter for this Tribunal?"

"Strictly pro bono, Duncan," she said cheerfully. "I don't get paid at all."

That was new. Reagan was a stickler for getting her money as well as her man.

Karla was talking to her students. "Out hiking today, were you?"

"We hiked here," Chonglin answered, not insolent, just matter of fact.

Sofie was nearly bouncing with impatience. "What do you think, Karla? About the Tribunal?"

Karla looked at Urushan as she said, "It's interesting."

"Karla and Duncan wish to observe," Urushan told everyone. "Cassandra is ready to take the oath and join."

"Great!" Sofie said. Chonglin bowed and Tunji clasped his hands together in front of his heart. Reagan nodded in a friendly way, and they all went into the room.

Cassandra put the stone on and recited the oath at Urushan's prompting. "As a member of the Immortal Tribunal, I pledge to seek a true evaluation of those who stand before the tribunal, instead of revenge or punishment for their past deeds; to take such action as is necessary to remove clear and present threats to mortals or immortals, to deal honestly and fairly with my fellow tribunes and with those being evaluated, and to abide by the decisions of the tribunal while heeding my own conscience."

Duncan would have been fine saying the first part, but he wasn't ready to abide by the decisions of a group of people he'd just met.

After handshakes and words of welcome for the new tribune, Sofie asked, "Is Cassandra going to be helping with the evaluation today?"

"There is an orientation," Tunji reminded her.

Urushan waved that away. "The evaluation will provide a practical orientation before the theoretical one."

Tunji was shaking his head. "We have standard procedures—"

"Nothing is standard with this case," Urushan broke in.

Reagan seemed to take that as an affront. "That's not my—"

"Enough," Karla ordered with a quick downward chop of the hand, and people were silent. Duncan reflected that while she didn't have the Voice, she certainly had command, probably a result of her centuries of military experience. Or from being a nun.

In the quietness, Duncan asked, "Who is your prisoner?" He tried to sound merely curious instead of frantic, because no one except Karla and Cassandra knew he was searching for anyone, and Duncan wanted to keep it that way for now.

"He calls himself James Coulsen," Sofie said.

So Methos was here. And about to put on trial for his life. Through fierce joy and terror, Duncan breathed out slowly, not daring to look at Cassandra or Karla in case he gave something away. Any enthusiasm he might have had for an immortal jury was fading fast. A court of justice, if such a thing had existed centuries ago, would have executed Methos the Horseman as a "clear and present" danger to all of mankind.

Of course, Duncan would have, too, if he'd been around back then. But this was now. "Where is he?" Duncan asked.

Tunji answered. "Nearby. Safe."

Methos wasn't near enough to trigger the sense of an immortal. "Do you mean that he's unharmed, or that we're safe from him?"

"Both," Tunji replied."He is in the waiting room."

That was a hell of a euphemism for a jail cell.

"We can see him from here," Sofie offered then turned on a monitor, and people crowded around.

She stood back to reveal a picture of Methos in a small room, fast asleep on the floor with a blanket over him. He was lying on his left side, with his cheek pillowed on his hand and his knees slightly drawn up. Duncan stepped forward to look more closely at the image. Methos seemed fine. "This is live feed?"

"Yes."

Duncan clamped down on his outrage, but some of it filtered through when he asked, "You spy on him?"

"No," Urushan said, stepping forward. "Occasionally, we check his status. Briefly." Urushan turned the monitor off and Methos disappeared.

"How long has he been here?" Cassandra asked, sounding mildly interested.

Members of the Tribunal glanced at each other, and it fell to Reagan to reply. "Eighteen months."

Karla turned on Urushan, obviously without any reservations about hiding her outrage. "You invited me to bring the school—and the students—here, and you neglected to tell me you were keeping prisoners at the same facility?"

"The caves and Haven are separate."

"We walked from one to the other in ten minutes," she pointed out sharply. "When word gets out, who will trust that Haven is not simply a front for your vigilante group? I should have been informed."

"Yes," he agreed immediately, as if he'd been waiting for the opportunity. "I apologize. I'd already invited you when they brought him here, and he wasn't supposed to be here very long."

"Because you were going to kill him?" Duncan asked.

Chonglin looked puzzled. "Only if he were a clear and present threat to mortals or immortals."

"Usually, evaluations take a week at most," Urushan explained. "This one…" He shook his head as he sighed. "As I said, nothing is standard."

"Why not?" Karla bit out, clearly still not happy, and Duncan was pretty sure that Urushan hadn't heard the last of it from her. "What has he done?"

People looked at Reagan again, and she stared back defiantly.

"Perhaps we should all sit down," Cassandra suggested, making the idea sound extremely reasonable and desirable, and everyone found a chair around the long table. Cassandra smiled directly at Reagan and encouraged, "Tell us, Reagan, how did James Coulsen come to be here?"

Duncan didn't hear the Voice of Command in any of what Cassandra was saying, and she wouldn't have needed to use it on Reagan, who'd been about to talk anyway. Still, Cassandra seemed unusually focused and sincere. Nerves? Special persuasiveness? He'd ask her later.

"An immortal we had helped in the past told us that a young immortal named Gitali was being stalked," Reagan began.

Duncan could see the pieces of the puzzle coming together.

"Her background checked out; Gitali was a new immortal, utterly clueless. The guy going after her was experienced. When we looked into him, we found he had done it before. So we dispatched a team to pick him up and help her find a teacher, if she wanted one. Maybe here at the Haven school. But when we got there, we found Gitali beheaded in an alley with him standing over the body. So we nabbed him." Reagan sighed. "But it wasn't him. I mean, it was Coulsen, but we realized later that he wasn't the killer."

"The killer was Mandeep Kapur?" Karla asked. "Urushan told us he'd been executed by this Tribunal for stalking young immortals."

"That's him. I pulled him in a week later. A real piece of work."

"Where is the justice in this?" Duncan asked. "If you know Coulsen didn't kill Gitali; why didn't you let him go?"

"His responses were anomalous and troubling," Tunji said. "We had to look into his history."

"For eighteen months?" Duncan asked incredulously.

"There were special circumstances. And we must be thorough."

Duncan knew that Methos was extremely cautious about leaving trails. "What did you find?"

Urushan met his gaze directly. "Information even more troubling."

"Like what?"

"We will see it all soon," Urushan promised. "Today, we are met to examine the evidence and reach a decision."

"So, you'll be bringing Coulsen to this room?" Cassandra asked.

Tunji shook his head. "No. We will communicate with him via the monitors. Respondents are contained at all times for safety."

"Respondents are contained?" Duncan repeated with heavy irony. "You mean prisoners are kept in jail."

"We have to," Sofie said. "There's no telling what he might do."

"Which," Tunji put in, "is precisely why he is still here."

Duncan shook his head. "Everyone has the right to confront their accusers."

Tunji raised his eyebrows, and Chonglin snorted in derision. "Not where I grew up."

"Everyone should have the right to respond to accusations and to provide evidence and explanations," Urushan corrected. "However, rapists and stalkers should not be allowed to confront, and thereby intimidate, their victims."

"He's not—," Duncan began, but he couldn't claim—especially with Cassandra sitting right there—that Methos was not a rapist. "He's not being accused of rape," Duncan said more calmly. "Right?"

"He is not being accused of anything," Urushan said. "He is being evaluated to see if he is a clear and present threat to mortals or immortals."

Duncan didn't like the sound of this at all. "Evaluated on the basis of what exactly?"

"Background information, his own testimony, and a character witness."

Karla lifted an eyebrow. "Only one?"

"We would prefer more, but he refuses to name any one else who knows him, and no one within our group recognizes him."

Duncan had heard enough. "I know him," he declared. "And I will testify on his behalf." He leaned forward, his arms on the table, his hands not quite fists. "And I expect to see him in this room. In person. Now."

Reagan and Sofie and Chonglin were all shaking their heads. "Coulsen can speak with us through the monitors," Chonglin said. "There is no need to move him."

"Are you all that cowardly?" Duncan challenged, his gaze traveling from face to face. "Not willing to face the man you might kill?"

Sofie narrowed her eyes at him and Reagan shrugged, but Urushan flushed, his lips tightening, and Tunji and Chonglin glared. "It is standard procedure," Tunji explained, as if that settled it all.

"Standard procedure?" Duncan repeated, half-rising from his chair, his hands tight with the urge to beat someone's head against the wall. "You're worried about standard procedure when a man's life is on the line?"

"Of course," Tunji answered with placid stubbornness. "For that is precisely when standard procedure should be followed: when passions are running high."

"Urushan," Karla said, "you've had the truth stone for hundreds of years. What did you do before you had monitors?"

"We met face to face." He nodded to her then turned to the other tribunes to say, "We could go back to the old ways."

"I don't like it," Sofie said.

"It is asking for trouble," Tunji agreed.

The two did not seem to realize that trouble had already arrived. Duncan could see that Reagan and Chonglin were considering the notion, and then Cassandra joined in, suggesting, "We could learn more by talking directly to Coulsen."

"Body language is important," Reagan agreed.

"As long as he is restrained," Chonglin added.

Reagan nodded. "Yes."

"We don't have time to put him under," Sofie objected. "What if he tries to escape on the way here?"

Duncan didn't doubt that Methos would try just that … and very probably succeed. Or at least get away from his captors. Getting out of these caves was another matter. They'd passed quite a few passageways on the way here.

"We need insurance," Tunji said. He turned to Duncan. "We will bring Coulsen to this room on one condition: You serve as surety for his behavior. If he escapes, you take his place. If he kills someone, your life is forfeit."

"That's disproportionate," Karla objected.

"And scapegoating," Urushan added. "Tunji, we can not—"

"It's OK," Duncan said. "On one condition: Cassandra tells him about the deal. Coulsen won't believe any of you."

"Why would he believe her?" Reagan asked, her gaze sweeping over Cassandra.

Cassandra smiled calmly at the other woman. "Because I know him, too."

"I see," Urushan murmured, looking back and forth between Duncan and Cassandra. "Will you testify for Coulsen, too?"

Cassandra smiled again. "Of course."

Duncan wasn't sure that was such a good idea.

Tunji was still focused on the transfer. "Cassandra will also need to be restrained."

"But she's a tribune," Chonglin protested.

"She is a very new tribune," Tunji said. "And she is compromised. Additionally, Duncan MacLeod, your life is also forfeit if she kills someone."

Duncan hadn't realized just what his scheme would entail. "Cassandra?" he asked, hoping she would play along. She didn't look happy about it, but after a moment she agreed.

On the monitor in the corner, a light blinked and a buzzer sounded. Sofie looked at it then announced, "I'll guide the witness in," and hurried out the door.

Tunji said to Duncan and Cassandra, "I need to search you both for weapons." He was efficient and practiced, and in a few minutes Duncan's katana and knives and a few other oddities were sitting on the table. Soon, Cassandra's stungun, knives, wire coil, miniature tool kit, hairpin, electric torch, necklace, and belt joined them there.

"Other weapons," Karla murmured, sounding amused.

"Turn around," Tunji ordered, and Cassandra's wrists were expertly lashed together behind her back with her own belt.

"Sorry about this," Duncan called softly, and Cassandra smiled and shrugged, not seeming too worried. After all, Duncan consoled himself, she still had the Voice, and they didn't know about that.

"Your turn," Reagan told him, and using ropes from a cupboard she tied Duncan to a chair. She was also efficient and practiced, but she wasn't exactly professional about it, whispering in his ear, "We could do this for each other later. Remember?" while her fingers wandered over the tender skin on the inside of his wrists.

Duncan gave her a flirtatious look to keep her happy, but he really wasn't in the mood. He was staking his life on Methos wanting to see him. He was also asking Methos to do the same for him.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Continued in Testimony, in which Methos finally gets to meet his jailers and much is revealed<strong> _


	31. Testimony

**Out of the Cell, 16 October 2053  
><strong>

* * *

><p>Methos didn't bother getting up when he felt an immortal approaching. His food was due to arrive. But he got up in a hurry when a man's muffled voice told him: "Back away from the door." No one had talked to him directly before. Methos retreated a step. "Up against the far wall," the man said.<p>

Those bloody surveillance cameras. Methos backed up until his shoulder blades were touching the padded wall. The door swung open, and lo and behold, Cassandra, supreme bitch of the universe, was standing there, and two of her minions were close behind. Each of them was carrying a stungun. He took a good look, memorizing the faces of his jailors for future reference.

One was tall and slender, probably from Africa, judging from the dark skin and facial scars. The shorter one had a round face and epicanthic folds at his eyes but wavy black hair. Maybe a mix of Chinese and Malay? Or possibly Hawaiian. Or anywhere, really. Immortals didn't always blend in. Cassandra's fair skin, green eyes, and tawny hair had stood out in sharp contrast to the dark skin and black hair of her people, like that Van Gogh painting with one white iris in a field of blue. He'd picked her out for the taking even before he'd realized she would be an immortal.

Now, she was standing with hands behind her back and feet slightly apart, her green eyes wide and lovely, expression calm and composed, a silken fall of that tawny hair almost touching her shoulders. Methos was surprised to see her and, he had to admit, a bit hurt. He really hadn't thought Cassandra would do this to him. Not for so long. He was also seriously irked. "Have I 'learned my lesson well', Cassandra?" Methos asked, taking a step forward in spite of the guns. "Is that why you've finally deigned to visit me here? Or did you just come to gloat?"

She didn't even answer, just rolled her eyes a bit and turned away. No, not turned away, turned around. She wasn't going anywhere, just showing him her back. That's when Methos noticed the belt binding her wrists together.

Which meant those two immortals were not minions, but guards. Probably. This could be a ploy, but he decided it was best to play it straight. "Ah," Methos said slowly as she turned around to face him again. "Sorry," he said, earnest and humble, both because he was and because he needed her on his side. "My mistake."

"Yes," she agreed, in a voice that could have desiccated a jellyfish, though she looked more exasperated than angry. Maybe even a touch amused.

"So," he said, starting over. He hoped. "It's good to see you." Worrisome, too. Was she another of their prisoners? If so, why? Cassandra didn't take heads. Were they hauling in all Immortals for questioning, one by one? "Please don't take this the wrong way, but I do hope you're not my new roommate." He looked around the small empty space. "Make that my new cellmate. Did they capture you recently?" That might explain why the Tribunal had revived him just now.

"Duncan and I weren't captured; we've been looking for you."

"Really?" An unstoppable grin bubbled up from within, mingling relief and joy with surprise and a grim appreciation of the inherent irony. "Are you here to rescue me, Cassandra?"

She understood the humor, even if she did fight the smile. "Just repaying the favor."

"Enough flirting," ordered the dark guard, sounding bored. "Tell him."

Cassandra got serious again. "Duncan is being held as surety for your good behavior—and mine—while you're being escorted from this cell."

Damn. Damn, damn, damn. With all the care—and personal risk—Methos had taken not to name names, Duncan and Cassandra were exactly where he didn't want them to be: in the hands of the Tribunal.

"If you come along quietly," she continued, "they'll let Duncan go. If you escape, or try to, he takes your place. If anyone is hurt or killed because of your actions, or mine, they'll kill him. He agreed to that."

Commitment didn't get more serious. Methos immediately dropped the half-dozen different escape scenarios he'd been considering. He'd come up with others later. Better ones, he hoped. "I'll come quietly," Methos promised, and when the short guard held up a pair of handcuffs, Methos gritted his teeth but turned around and let himself be manacled. The cuffs were lightweight, but the metal was cold and the edges uncomfortable.

Then he and Cassandra were marched down a long cavern, where yellow bulbs on the ceiling lit their way with golden pools of light. His bare feet trod over sandy grit and cold stone, and scraped on rough concrete patches here and there. He could smell mold and taste the dust of rocks. Gods, it was good to be alive!

"Tunji. Shonglin." Cassandra's voice echoed oddly in the cave. "I need to explain the situation to Coulsen. It will save time."

"Yes," Tunji agreed at the same time as Chonglin said: "You should talk." Their voices also sounded odd.

Cassandra smiled cheerfully at Methos. "Any questions?"

For one: how the hell did that Voice-witchery work anyway? Methos settled for: "Where is this cave?"

"Armenia," Cassandra replied.

Land of lovely mountains and luscious apricots. He'd had a wife and a family in Armenia once, back in the days of the Roman Empire, before Christianity arrived. He'd come here with Byron, too, about two centuries ago, so that Byron could finally master the language he'd studied in Venice before he'd died. "Have you met the Tribunal?" Methos asked Cassandra.

"Five of them so far, including Tunji," she nodded at the tall guard, "and Chonglin." She smiled at the shorter fellow.

Methos looked behind, nodded politely as he matched faces to names, and said hello. They didn't say hello back, but Chonglin nodded in return. Their guns stayed steady.

"Also," she went on brightly, "I joined the Tribunal today."

"I see." He didn't, not clearly enough. "So, am I to infer from this that the Tribunal is _not_ ravening harpies out for my blood, or that they are?"

"Not," she said, sharp as a newly honed blade. "Duncan and Karla and I were being recruited by them."

"Interesting." That changed the situation quite a bit. Perhaps the Tribunal could be reasonable after all. "Who's Karla?"

"A friend of Duncan's. Early life as a Celtic warrior, shield maiden after that. Currently the preceptress at Haven, which is a nearby school for new immortals."

"Seems like everyone's getting organized these days," Methos commented. The Tribunal, this Haven school, Ceirdwyn's place for youngsters, Cassandra's many projects…

"Strength in numbers," Cassandra said placidly. "As for the rest of the tribunal: Tribune Urushan also teaches at Haven, and Tribune Reagan is another friend of Duncan's. Those two are waiting for us in a meeting room. Tribune Sofie, a student at Haven, is escorting a witness in. Any idea who that might be?"

"Serena," Methos answered. He hoped. "She's a friend."

Cassandra looked at him sidelong. "Duncan is a friend."

The unspoken questions were very loud. "I was hoping," Methos explained, "to keep Duncan out of the Tribunal's hands. And you, too," he added, which definitely seemed to please Cassandra and also happened to be true. Too bad his efforts had been for naught. The gallant idiot had gone and handed himself over to them, and now Cassandra was being marched along at gunpoint, as was he.

All right, what did that leave? Five people on the Tribunal, and five people on his side, as long as he included Serena and Karla, though he wasn't sure what those two could do, or would do, and Duncan and Cassandra and he himself were all bound. Still, Cassandra had the Voice, and that was good. But if she were to be a witness, she should know. "They can tell somehow," Methos warned, "if you're lying or not. There's a blue light—"

"It's a truth stone," she informed him. "Urushan showed it to us today."

She didn't seem either curious or incredulous, so Methos suspected she'd seen one before. However, judging by the displeased click from the guard Tunji, at least one member of the Tribunal was not in agreement with Urushan. That was good to know.

Methos wanted to ask who had swords and guns, but talking about weapons in front of guards was never a good idea, ensorcelled though they might be. "What's the situation?" Methos asked Cassandra.

"Not good, but better now."

Infinitely better. He was alive, he was out of the damn cell, and Duncan (and Cassandra) had come to rescue him and even brought a friend, and Serena would soon arrive. Methos started to whistle.

* * *

><p><strong>The Evaluation<strong>

* * *

><p>Duncan was surprised, but not shocked, when the witness turned out to be Kate. She'd been Methos's lover several times in the last fifteen hundred years. But why had Methos named only her as a witness? He could have named Duncan. Or Amanda or Elena or even Connor. Perhaps Methos had wanted someone who had known him a long time. Or perhaps Methos didn't want to get Duncan involved. Too bad.<p>

Kate's hair was brown now, quite short and curly, and she was wearing utilitarian boots and a sleek beige jumpsuit that fit her snugly in all the right places. "Good afternoon, Kate," Duncan greeted her cheerfully, ignoring his uncomfortable position and his status as prisoner du jour. "How was Ganymede?"

"Utterly amazing! And so beautiful, with Jupiter hanging in the sky, and all the other moons, and the sun looking more like a star…" She was starry-eyed with enthusiasm, until she shook herself and came back down to earth. "And so much to learn. That's why the mission was extended so long." She tilted her head to see his bonds more clearly. "Sofie tells me you've offered yourself as surety for Philippe's behavior?"

"I wanted to see him, and they wouldn't bring him here otherwise." Duncan shrugged as best he could with his hands tied. "It won't be much longer."

Kate nodded dubiously then exchanged friendly greetings with Reagan; obviously they had met before. When Kate looked at the other two people in the room, Sofie stepped forward to perform introductions. "Kate, this is Karla Morgan, the preceptress at the Haven school. And this is Urushan; he's a teacher there."

Kate bowed to each of them in turn. "Thank you for providing a school for Sofie, and the others. We can't always teach them as long as we would like." Sofie ducked her head, looking like an embarrassed teenager.

Duncan wanted to ask Kate what she thought about this tribunal business, and if she'd realized what Sofie had gotten up to, but another wave of dizziness shuddered through him when four immortals arrived. Cassandra and Methos were first, walking side by side, each with hands behind their back, like a pair of children with something to hide. Chonglin and Tunji followed close behind. Methos was barefoot and dressed in gray pajamas… prison garb. He seemed thinner, and the pallor of his face was accentuated by dark stubble and tousled hair.

But his golden-brown eyes were bright as he took in the other immortals, the room with its chairs around the table, the cache of weapons, and Duncan tied to a chair. Then he looked straight at Duncan and smiled, the ends of his lips quirking upward, deepening the grooves from nose to chin, but no mockery or irony or amusement this time. Just delight, and a sense of coming home.

"He's here and well behaved," Duncan heard Cassandra say to someone. "Untie us."

Reagan answered, "After he's secured."

Methos didn't resist when he was led to the empty chair at the end of the table or when Reagan began strapping Methos's handcuffs behind his back to the chair. "Thanks for looking me up, MacLeod," Methos said.

He sound as casual as if Duncan had just stopped by while he happened to be in the same town, so Duncan tried to match the bantering tone by answering: "You were late."

"I was…detained," Methos replied.

Duncan watched as Methos focused on each of the Tribunal in turn, as if to imprint each face in memory. Urushan met Methos's gaze calmly, Reagan ignored him, and Sofie tried to seem cool and unimpressed but failed. When Methos looked at Karla, Duncan hastened to say, "Karla's a friend." Methos bowed, leaving Duncan to wonder how Methos managed to make even a seated, manacled bow look elegant. Karla's answering nod was equally graceful.

Then Methos turned to Kate, and his smile returned. "Serena."

She didn't smile back, just stayed serious and intent. "Philippe."

As soon as Reagan straightened from securing Methos's ankles to the chair, Cassandra called Chonglin by name and asked politely to be untied, though Duncan's trained ear heard her words for what they truly were: a command. Chonglin unlashed her wrists, while Reagan untied Duncan. As soon as he was free, he stood and went to get his weapons and gear. Cassandra had already picked up hers, though her stun gun had been hidden away. But fighting wasn't a reasonable option, not in this small room with this many people, not with Methos still bound. They would have to use persuasion and guile. And maybe the Voice again.

"Are you warm enough?" Duncan asked Methos, for those prison pajamas couldn't give much protection against the damp chill of the underground air.

"It is a bit nippy," Methos admitted in classic understatement. Duncan took off his jacket, only to be intercepted by Reagan, who took it from him, emptied all the pockets, then put it around Methos's shoulders. Methos shifted, snuggling deeper and inhaling the scent, before saying, "Thanks" in a way that warmed Duncan all the way through.

Cassandra, meanwhile, had taken a blanket and a pillow off a bunk bed. She knelt, placing the pillow between Methos's bare feet and the cold floor, then tucked the blanket on top, as efficient and brisk as any nurse might be. She stood and started to turn away, but Methos called softly, "Ki-e-nida." Duncan had no idea what it meant, but it made Cassandra turn back to Methos, and they stood there looking at each other, until she blinked back tears and nodded, and Methos swallowed hard then turned his face away.

Kate, like everyone else in the room, was watching the little drama. But when she looked at Cassandra, her expression went from curious to puzzled to surprised. "Deoreve?" Kate called.

Another word that Duncan didn't know, but once again Cassandra responded, looking at Kate intently and then saying, "Orlath?" in wonder and delight. The greeting that followed would have looked at home on any soap opera: full of hugs and laughter and exclamations that were nearly squeals. Methos was watching the two women with a subdued yet speculative gleam in his eye, and Duncan wondered if he was imagining bedroom possibilities, perhaps including Amanda as well.

Finally, Kate (a.k.a. Serena a.k.a. Orlath) turned to everyone else and explained, "We haven't seen each other for quite a while."

"When and where was that?" Sofie asked, either too young to know immortal etiquette or too interested to care.

"Northern Ireland," Cassandra replied, and after a nod of assent from Kate, Cassandra added, "About sixteen hundred years ago."

Back when the kingdom of Dal Riata held sway. Kate had told Duncan of her birth in that land, not so far from his own. He hadn't known that Cassandra had been there, too.

"We should begin," Tunji announced. Methos, already at the foot of the table, was immediately flanked by Reagan and Urushan, acting as guards. Karla claimed the chair at the head of the table, and everyone else found a seat. Duncan ended up between Tunji and Chonglin, and the three of them were facing Sofie, Kate, and Cassandra across the table.

"Point of order," Duncan said, raising his hand. "Who's in charge?"

"I am presiding today," Tunji said. He had a stack of paper and a pen in front of him.

"You take turns?"

"Some of us do. Other prefer not to preside." He looked around the room at the attentive faces, nodded once, then began. "On the fifteenth day of October in the year twenty-fifty-three, the tribunal consists of these five: Tunji, Isadora Reagan Cole, Sofia Yildirim, Chonglin Lee, and Urushan of the House of Mehnuni. Witnesses are Kate Cavanaugh, Duncan MacLeod, and Cassandra. The truth stone is available, and any may call for its use at any time. We are met to evaluate one James Coulsen, also known as Kyle Winston, Philippe Jarbeau, and many other names."

"Another point of order," Methos interjected, rather loudly since he could not raise a hand. "What right have you five to evaluate me? I've never agreed to your authority."

"Neither have I," Karla said. She was sprawled in her chair, one arm hooked over the back, one leg propped up, with the lazy deadly grace of a waiting cat.

"I never agreed to the Game," Sofie shot back. "I never agreed that Duncan got to be sheriff, either, but the first thing he ever told me was to 'follow the rules'. I don't hunt, but I'll do what it takes to defend myself against a maniac who wants to chop off my head, and I'll help my friends do the same. I said it then and I'll say it now: Fuck those rules. Fuck the Game. We're not playing."

"Oh, brava," said Methos enthusiastically, and when Sofie and everyone else turned to look at him in surprise, he added, "I'd clap if I could."

"You're making fun of me," she accused.

"Not at all," he said, sounding utterly sincere. "That was well spoken. And you make a good point. After all, why should a good guy risk his life to take out a bad guy, when good guys can band together and protect themselves and their family and friends? That is the purpose of this Tribunal, correct?"

"Correct," Chonglin agreed stoutly.

"Tell me," Methos began, "how many Immortals has this Tribunal actually killed?"

"Three," Tunji replied.

"And how many have you 'evaluated'?"

"You are the fifth."

"We're usually very careful about who we pick up," Reagan said.

It sounded half like an explanation and half like an apology, and Methos nodded understandingly and smiled at her. "I'm sure."

"Before you organized into this Tribunal," Cassandra asked the group, "did some of you act alone to eliminate evil immortals by killing them outside the rules of the Game?"

"I never have," Urushan said, and Tunji shook his head.

"I did," Sofie said. "I shot the bastard who killed my cat and then I took his head."

"I did much the same." Chonglin's face was impassive, his voice cold. "I was not even thirty years old, an immortal only a year, and I knew nothing. This man, who told me he had fought with Genghis Khan, started stalking me and saying he was going to cut off my head, but he never told me why. I ran him over with a car, took his sword, and I cut off his head. Later, I met Sofie, and she told me of the Game and its rules."

"Chonglin and I helped two other who were being hunted," Sofie said. "And we've talked to others online."

"All of you are the shooters," Duncan realized. No wonder he hadn't been able to find a common thread or style. They'd been coming from all over.

"We never hunt this way," Chonglin said earnestly. "We only protect ourselves and our friends."

"We got neater after we organized into the Tribunal five years ago," Sofie said. "We don't leave bodies behind anymore."

"Who's 'we'?" Duncan asked, pouncing on this opportunity to find out more. "Who were the organizers?"

"Chonglin and I had already been working together, and when we told Kate she said it was too haphazard, so we figured out rules and picked a name."

"Kate?" Duncan repeated in disbelief, and she looked back at him with serene eyes. He'd been thinking she was here as witness, not tribune. Certainly not the mastermind behind it all.

"Jove's balls," Methos swore, and Duncan couldn't tell if it was disgust or admiration in his tone. Maybe both. "You are such an engineer, Serena. You always have to go and _fix _things."

"The Game needs fixing," she replied. "It's inherently unfair to new immortals."

"It's like sending a Little Leaguer to the World Series," Chonglin added, though judging from Tunji and Sofie's expressions, the baseball sports reference hadn't helped.

Methos was shaking his head. "You can't stop the Game."

"Who said we wanted to?" Kate retorted. "We're just trying to level the playing field."

"You people don't want to be groundskeepers," Methos snapped, finally showing anger instead of charm. "You've appointed yourself _umpires _with the power to chop off heads_. _How dare you kidnap me, interrogate me, and kill me, then leave me dead for eighteen months, only to wake me up and put me on trial for my life?"

Sofie jumped into the discussion with youthful—and foolish—abandon. "The kidnapping was by mistake, the questioning was to find out more about you, and we only killed you because we needed the waiting room for Mandeep Kapur."

Duncan was glad to hear the Tribunal had only the one jail cell.

"We were going to wake you up as soon as Kate got back," Sofie went on. "It was only supposed to be a few weeks, but then the mission return date was delayed, and then delayed some more, and then another few months, and since you were already dead, well…" Sofie shrugged helplessly.

Duncan knew how that went: people had good intentions to take care of a problem soon, and somehow days turned into weeks, then months, then years.

Methos had been looking at Kate with deceptive mildness ever since Sofie had mentioned waiting for Kate's return. "I've been locked up—dead—waiting for _you_?" Methos asked Kate. "Why ?"

"Since I knew you, I was asked to testify," Kate replied. "There was information stored in my safety deposit box, and I was the only one who could retrieve it then give it to the Tribunal. I never expected to be gone so long," she said to Methos. "I'm sorry. Anyway, what do a few months matter, Philippe? You're immortal."

"You made me miss the _launch_, Serena."

"Oh." She looked abashed. "I didn't realize."

"And," Methos informed her tersely, "I had plans."

"While his friends," Duncan added with equal irritation, "were worried."

Kate opened her mouth, then looked back and forth between the two of them, and shut it again. "I'm sorry," she said finally, and she sounded like she meant it this time.

Duncan was about to drive his point home, but Methos shook his head slightly, so Duncan let it go. This wasn't a good time to argue with Kate. They needed her as a friendly witness.

Karla asked the next question: "How did the Tribunal come to be located here?"

"Two years ago," Urushan said, "I offered the Tribunal the use of the truth stone and this location, so that we could deliberate and be certain, instead of taking heads in the field." He looked at his hands. "Some decisions should not be made hastily."

"Very true," Cassandra agreed.

"This one certainly hasn't been," Methos said dryly.

"Then clearly, if there are no more questions," Tunji said with elaborate courtesy, "we should start the evaluation now. I call for the truth stone," he announced, and Urushan took it from the box and fastened it around Methos's head. Tunji turned to Methos. "Earlier, you asked about the purpose of this Tribunal. Has it been explained to your satisfaction?"

"Yes. And I will acknowledge the authority of this tribunal, but only if Karla is in charge."

"You can't be serious!" Duncan protested in shock, even though the light had stayed blue.

"These are good people, MacLeod," Methos said reassuringly. "I'm sure they'll make the right decision and let me go." The light stayed blue without even a flicker, though the eyes of the tribunes flickered as they looked at each other and at him. Karla had straightened in her chair, looking down the length of the table at Methos, saying nothing. Methos held her gaze as he repeated, "Karla must be in charge."

"I accept," she said, before any of the tribunes had more than opened their mouths.

"You are not a tribune," Tunji objected.

"Precisely," Methos agreed. "She's not one of you, and she doesn't know me. She's impartial. Fair and trustworthy."

"I trust her," Sofie said.

"So do I," Duncan agreed.

"And I." Urushan's deep voice hung in the air, and Chonglin and Cassandra both agreed. Kate shrugged, and Reagan and Tunji looked at each other then nodded. Tunji turned to Karla and waited, ostentatiously letting the silence grow.

"Tunji," Karla said, "please present the evidence, as you were about to do."

He rustled his papers and picked up his pen. "Mr. Coulsen was brought here solely because he was mistaken for another immortal. There are no current offenses for us to review. However, because of certain aspects of his testimony it was decided, by majority vote, to hold him for further investigation. Unfortunately, as we have heard, that delay lasted long than expected." He swiveled his chair to reach the keyboard behind him, and the keys made tiny clicking sounds. He turned back around to say, "Here is his testimony, in his own words."

The lights dimmed and an image of Methos appeared on the wall behind the actual Methos. Blue light played on the image's face. He answered questions about his past with an artful distillation of truth, until the last question came: "Do you like to kill?"

"No," the image-Methos said, and the light of truth in the image disappeared.

Duncan looked at the expressions flickering across the faces of the tribunes: wary, concerned, intrigued, disgusted… Cassandra and Karla showed nothing but grave attention, and Kate was staring at the table. The Methos sitting at the table was looking young and appealing, and his hair had somehow fallen partly over his right eye.

The image-Methos explained himself earnestly and ended with: "I have changed." Then the display disappeared and the lights in the room brightened again.

"As you can see," Tunji said, "Mr. Coulsen sincerely believes he has changed, and we hope this is true. As far as we could tell from the names he gave us, he has shown no tendencies to violence during the last fifty years. We also accessed this database." The display now showed text in old-fashioned typing underneath the circular logo of the Watcher Organization.

Duncan hadn't thought to see that again, certainly not here."Is this the information you had in your safety deposit box, Kate?"

"No."

"Then what is it?" Karla asked before Duncan could ask Kate anything more.

"It's a database that was found in an estate sale about thirty years ago," Chonglin explained. "My friend's father was a collector of antique media; a computer storage disc was in a box with old books. The disc had biographies of Immortals, lots of us, going back millennia." A new page showed a table of contents with a sample list of immortals, neatly alphabetized from _Bellion, Everett_ to _Browning, Charles (cf. 'of York')_. "They always thought it was just a joke, but as soon as I saw it, I bought it from him. Its records only go up to 1995."

Duncan remembered that year. Kalas had killed the Watcher Don Salzer, and in revenge Christine Salzer had threatened to hand over computer files to the media, exposing the secrets of immortality and quickenings and the Game. Duncan had thought all those computer discs had been destroyed. Obviously, he'd been wrong.

"As you might expect," Tunji said, "the disc prompted more investigation. The Watchers, the mortal organization that wrote all those biographies, fell apart about forty years ago, apparently due to hostile action from some immortals who'd found out about them."

"Good," Karla muttered, and others—including Cassandra, who'd been one of those hostile immortals—nodded in agreement.

"However," Tunji continued, "we occasionally discover more of their work. Such as this."

A new page appeared, all text, with "Methos" and "Four Horsemen" highlighted in yellow.

Duncan stifled a curse, hoping that Kate's information was strong enough to counteract this. Methos closed his eyes with a look of long-suffering exasperation, while Cassandra looked up with a small, tight smile. Duncan didn't think she wanted to see Methos dead anymore, but payback was a bitch, and sometimes Cassandra was, too.

"This report," Tunji was saying, "is dated February 1997. It says that an immortal named Methos was a member of a band of immortals raiders that terrorized people for a thousand years or so, back in the Bronze Age. The band was vicious and brutal, as these groups usually are. This 'Methos' is also said to have used the alias of Adam Pierson, who looked like this." And up on the display popped a picture of Methos in his Adam Pierson days, who of course looked just like James Coulsen now.

"Mr. Coulsen?" Tunji prompted. "Is this you?"

"I did use the name Adam Pierson, and yes that's a picture of me."

"And are you Methos?"

"Yes."

Lying wasn't an option, not with the truth stone, but Duncan had still expected reluctance or evasion. Yet Methos hadn't hesitated, and his answer had been firm, even defiant. Perhaps he wanted the Tribunal to think he had nothing to be ashamed of and no reason to hide?

"Are you really the oldest immortal?" Sofie asked, sounding awed.

He shrugged slightly, with a modest smile. "As far as I know."

Tunji glanced her way, and Sofie sank back in her chair. Tunji continued, "Is the report of the mounted raiders true?"

Methos didn't duck this one, either. "Yes." The word was plain and undeniable, damning in its simplicity.

"Would you care to expand upon that?" Tunji asked.

Duncan had already heard the sickening details. Yes, I killed. Yes, I murdered and raped and burned. Yes, I killed hundreds and thousands of people, women and children and men. I killed because I liked it. And I was good at it.

"As I said in my interview," Methos said, somehow evoking the sense of a puppy who was honestly trying its best, "I did evil things, a long time ago. I regret that, but I can't change the past, no matter how much I want to. But I haven't been that person for thousands of years. I have changed."

"How many times?" Kate asked, speaking for the first time since the evidence had started, and Duncan was surprised to hear the challenge in her tone.

"Kate," Sofie cautioned, laying a hand on her teacher's arm, while Tunji said, "Remember: you are here to give testimony, not to ask questions."

"And that starts when?"

Tunji turned to Karla and waited. She looked at Kate for a long moment then said, "Duncan will testify now. Then Kate, then Cassandra."

Tunji reached into the folder, pulled out a sheet of paper, and handed it to Duncan. "Will you wear the truth stone?"

"It's an option?" Duncan asked.

"Yes, though your testimony carries more weight if you do."

"Then I'll wear it." Everyone waited while he read the list of topics they wanted him to cover and Urushan brought over the truth stone. Duncan put it on. It was still warm from being next to Methos's skin, and he took a deep breath before lifting his head. Methos's calm gaze gave Duncan confidence. They could do this.

"My name is Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod," he began, making eye contact with each of the five tribunes. "I never thought I'd meet the oldest immortal; Methos was a myth.

"But Methos was alive. We met fifty years ago. At first I found him enigmatic, intriguing, fascinating. Then frustrating, sometimes even infuriating. He was always getting me to think, to look at situations in new ways." Duncan gave a few examples from those days. He would have stopped there, but since they'd already brought up the Horsemen, he needed to explain.

"When I found out about his time with the raiders, I was horrified," Duncan admitted. "I told him we couldn't be friends anymore. But, within a few days, I realized he wasn't that person anymore. He hadn't been for a very long time. So, we worked together to stop the immortal raiders." Duncan was not going to use the word Horsemen; it gave people ideas. "I killed two, and Methos killed the last of them." So much for the evil. Now to talk about the good.

"Methos and I have worked together to help people. He's even risked his own life to save the lives of others, both mortals and immortals. He may grumble and claim he's not honorable or brave, but he does the right thing anyway."

Methos lifted his head, a smile flirting with the corners of his mouth and deepening the color of his eyes to amber, and met Duncan's gaze steadily. Duncan had more he wanted to tell Methos, but not in a roomful of strangers. When they got out of this room—and they were going to get out of this room—he would tell Methos things he should have said long ago.

"I've placed my life in his hands, many times. I've placed my trust there, too." Duncan looked straight at Methos to say: "He's my best friend." Then Duncan told the Tribunal: "He's a good man."

"Thank you, Duncan MacLeod," Tunji said. "Are there any questions for him?" No one spoke up, and Tunji handed the paper with its instructions to Kate. Duncan slid the truth stone over to her.

She looked at the stone briefly then pushed her hair out of the way and put it on. "My name now is Kate Cavanaugh. I met Methos in Aurelianum, about fifteen hundred years ago. The city was besieged, so food was scarce, and the enemy was near. Through it all, he was resourceful, fun, often devious, occasionally brave. I admired him and I liked him, quite a lot.

"We met next at Versailles, more than a thousand years later. He was outrageous and decadent and bitingly witty, just as everyone else was, or tried to be. Then about twenty years ago, we met working on the space program. He's creative and thorough, very good at his job, and a highly respected engineer. And he's still fun." She looked down at the paper again then pushed it to one side.

"But you ask me if I trust him." She looked at the five members of the Tribunal and Karla, going around the table. "I have to say no. He fits in with the people around him, whoever they might be. He's a changeling and a chameleon. He changes, all the time."

Many years earlier, Duncan had felt exactly the same way, but he and Methos had gone through a lot together. Kate didn't know Methos very well.

"You ask what he is capable of," Kate continued. "Everything. Cruelty and kindness, murder and rescue, friendship and betrayal."

Everyone was. Duncan remembered Methos telling him (rather impatiently) much the same thing: We all have rage and compassion, love and hate, murder and forgiveness.

"He is dangerous, but that is to be expected," she said dismissively. "He is an immortal. We are all dangerous. But he is dangerous not just with weapons, but with words. He does not respect the truth. He is devious and deceitful. Here, today," Kate pointed out, "he has been charming and ingratiating to each of you in turn. He is trying to get you to like him. He is, in short, manipulating you."

Duncan was relieved to see that only Chonglin seemed surprised by that information.

"It is true that recently, as far as we know, Methos has behaved well," Kate said. "But when—not if, but when—he falls in with brutal people, he will become a murderer again. Because Methos has nothing within him to keep him centered." Kate sounded as calm as if she were reporting on the percentage of aluminum in a sample of steel. "Methos has no moral center, no honor at all."

Where the hell did that come from? Duncan looked first at Kate and then down the table at Methos. Neither of them was showing any expression at all, except for a slight narrowing of Methos's eyes. "What," Methos said to Kate, "did I ever do to you?"

"Nothing." She was still cool and calm, and the light was still blue.

"Are you angry with me?"

"No, not at all." She seemed surprised by the question. "I very much regret that I could not recommend you." And that was true, too.

The last time Duncan had seen Methos and Kate together, she had been laughing as she fed him crème brulee from her own spoon. "What happened, Kate?" Duncan asked. "What's changed?"

"I learned of his past."

Duncan shook his head. "He's not a raider anymore."

"Nor is he an opium eater or a drunkard. Or a gambler or a seducer of women. Yet in the past he has been all of these, because that was what his companions were. When you see honor in him, you are seeing yourself in him, for he is hollow inside." Kate was almost pleading now. "Ask yourself, Duncan: What will he be when you're gone? _Who _will he be?"

Duncan had once asked Methos similar questions: Who are you really? What game are you playing? Duncan had never learned how or why the Horsemen had ended. Had Methos woken up one morning and decided on his own to leave? Or had he fallen in with a better crowd?

"Who will any of us be?" Cassandra asked. "As the centuries roll over us, we are each transformed, again and again. I am not the person I once was. Neither are you, Orlath."

"Transformed," Kate agreed, "but not completely new. Certain core beliefs are within me still, and will always be: honor, duty, loyalty. Methos has none."

"Is this true, Methos?" Urushan got up to put the truth stone on Methos again. "Do you not have any core beliefs?"

Duncan remembered Methos saying "Survive" a lot. Also: Live, grow stronger, and fight another day. Walk away. Don't judge. Let it go. Let it be. People die; immortals die. I want to live. Accept yourself, the good and the bad.

"I believe in acceptance," Methos said.

Duncan could see that Tunji and Urushan didn't like that answer. Sofie and Chonglin looked confused. Reagan might have been playing poker; her face was that still.

"Is there any deed you would not do?" Tunji asked Methos.

"It's likely I've already done them all," he said wryly. "There are many I would not do again."

Duncan forced himself to relax his hands, so that his nails didn't dig into his palms. Being honest did not require being frank.

"Yes, I've done bad things," Methos admitted once more. "Including sex and drugs and rock-n-roll."

Urushan's mouth twitched at that; Sofie and Reagan smiled a little. Chonglin and Tunji did not smile at all.

Methos got serious again. "Kate's right; I changed. And I'll change again. So will you, most likely. The world changes, and we either change with it, or we die. But it's been more than two thousand years since I rode as a raider, and I've never once gone back to what I was then. I never want to be that man again." He was looking at Cassandra now, that truth utterly clear between them.

"I believe in kindness," Methos said firmly. "And I believe in acceptance, because we all make mistakes. If you can't accept that, both in yourself and in other people, you end up either angry or guilty. Either way, you're bitter and alone, and eventually, you crack and you shatter and you die."

Reagan and Sofie and Chonglin were all listening intently, and Tunji seemed thoughtful. Urushan had leaned back in his chair. Duncan took a breath and tried to relax.

"You talk of kindness," Kate said to Methos. "What of loyalty? What of—?"

"Enough," Karla ordered. "As Tunji said, you are here to give testimony, not to ask questions."

"But—"

"Enough. Do you have further testimony?"

Kate looked mutinous but finally answered, "No."

"Do the tribunes have any questions for Kate? Or for Methos?" When no one answered, Karla nodded to Cassandra, and Urushan gave her the truth stone. She fastened it upon her brow, wearing it as if it were the regalia of a high priestess, and maybe it had been, once upon a time.

"I am Cassandra," she began, in a voice that carried echoes of ancients days and forgotten mysteries. "When I first met Methos, he was riding with those mounted raiders. They slaughtered my tribe and me. That was the first time I died, When I revived, I was his slave."

The other women turned to look at Methos in horrified fascination. The men, fascinated in a different way, kept looking at Cassandra.

"I hated him," Cassandra said simply. "He was arrogant, vicious, and deliberately cruel. I wanted to kill him. Eventually, I escaped.

"When next I saw him, thousands of years later, I still wanted to kill him. But he wasn't the same man he had been. To kill him would have been an act of revenge, not justice. Duncan helped me to see that, and so I walked away."

She leaned forward, serious and intent, the blue truth light somehow making her eyes look gray instead of green. "I know, firsthand, what cruelty Methos is capable of. He is not hollow, for there is a darkness within him.

"Just as there is a darkness within each of us." Cassandra took the time to look at each person at the table, ending with Kate. "Methos knows his darkness," Cassandra continued. "And so he controls it, before it can control him. He will not permit himself to become that raider again. Because of this, I trust him more than I trust any other man. During the last half-century, I have gone to him for advice and comfort several times. I know his kindness, for there is a light within him as well. I think as him as a brother."

Duncan had never expected Cassandra to say anything like that. From Methos's unblinking yet subtly stunned expression, neither had he.

Cassandra finished her testimony by saying simply, yet very compellingly: "I want him to live." And now she was looking at Methos, and he at her. Methos said something softly in a language Duncan didn't recognize, and Cassandra replied with a lift of her head and a smile, accompanied once again by the glint of tears.

Fascinating as that display was, Duncan looked at the other people in the room. Kate was watching Cassandra sadly, as if her old friend had been diagnosed with a terminal disease. Tunji and Reagan both had narrowed eyes, and Chonglin was looking down, his mouth tight. Sofie was looking at other people, from Kate to Cassandra to Methos to Duncan and back to Kate. Urushan was leaning his chin on his hand, his fingers covering his mouth, while Karla, in her role as moderator, had no expression at all.

Duncan never wanted to be a lawyer; he couldn't figure this jury out at all.

Cassandra bowed her head and closed her eyes as she removed the truth stone, then pressed her palms together around it, as if in prayer, and invoked: "Truth has been spoken; let justice now be done."

"Let justice now be done," Urushan and Karla both repeated, and he looked at Karla in surprise.

Karla asked the tribunes: "Is there more evidence? Have you more questions?" Everyone said no, and she looked down the table. "Methos, would you like to say anything more?"

He shook his head, and Karla folded her hands in front of her on the table. "The man before you enjoys the act of killing. This is not unusual for immortals. He admits to evil deeds in times long past, yet says he has committed no such deeds in the last two thousand years. He avers that he has changed, and we have evidence of good behavior these last fifty years. We have two witnesses who vouch for his good character, and one witness who contends he is dangerous because he is amoral. The question before you: Is this man a clear and present threat to mortals or immortals? What says this Tribunal?"

No one spoke until Tunji said, "It is our custom to cast our ballots anonymously, so we do not influence each other."

While Urushan rose and took out a small box from a cupboard, Duncan once again looked around the room. Methos had put on a calm expression, but his mouth was tight was tension. Kate looked irritated, while Karla seemed carved out of stone. Cassandra sat motionless with lowered eyes, and she was too far away to kick to get her attention.

Urushan had finished distributing a marble to each tribune. Then he tilted the box so that everyone could see that the inside was separated into two compartments of equal size. Two holes were drilled into the lid, and two words were stenciled upon the top of the lid: _Release_ and _Execute_.

Duncan had a grim appreciation for the forthright words. No hiding behind euphemisms.

"We will each approach the box separately to cast our vote," Urushan explained. He set the box in the far corner of the room then turned his back to them and dropped his marble in one of the holes. Tunji waited until Urushan was back in his seat before rising. Chonglin was rolling his marble between his fingers, and Sofie had hers clutched in her hand. Reagan had set hers on the table.

Duncan was really hoping they voted to release. Because if they didn't…

He didn't want to kill anyone, but he was not going to let Methos die. Methos may have agreed to the authority of this trumped up tribunal and Cassandra may have taken their oath, but Duncan sure hadn't. So, how to bust out of here?

Duncan could probably knife Chonglin where he sat and then (maybe) take out Tunji. The man carried himself well. Urushan, Reagan and Kate were all skilled, and Sofie wasn't squeamish anymore about killing. Duncan wasn't sure what Karla would do. If she sat it out, that made the odds two to one. Even if Cassandra used the Voice and if Methos were aggressively lethal with the legs of that chair, their chances weren't good. That stungun would have helped a lot, but it was probably in Reagan's or Tunji's pocket right now.

Reagan got up to vote, and Duncan considered the option of mounting a rescue during the transfer to the execution site. There should be fewer people then. But when would "then" be? And where?

No. It would have to be now. Duncan pushed his chair back from the table to let Chonglin out, then pushed back a bit more to get room to maneuver. Methos saw him and gave the tiniest of nods. Cassandra was finally paying attention, and she pushed her chair back, too. Good. Now Duncan could lift the table and tip it over on top of Kate and Sofie and Urushan without trapping Cassandra. If she could immobilize Sofie and Kate, and if Methos could take out either Urushan and Reagan, they might have a chance.

Though if they did manage to immobilize everyone, either through stunning or killing, they still needed to get the hell away. Would the Tribunal give chase? If they caught up, would they "evaluate" Duncan and Cassandra for aiding and abetting a condemned man?

It didn't matter; they were going to try.

Sofie voted then carried the box to Karla before sitting down. Karla didn't bother with pretentious announcements, like "The Tribunal has voted" or "Let justice now be done." She just turned the box so everyone could see it, and she opened the lid to reveal the distribution of the five marbles inside.

"Damn," Sofie swore.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Continued in "The Measure of a Man"<strong>_


	32. Measure of a Man & Epilog

**Into the Light**

* * *

><p>Methos wasn't keen on emotional outbursts. He preferred the wry smile and the witty comeback, the elegant shrug and the exasperated sigh.<p>

Still, it was hard to keep from letting out a whoop when Karla opened the box and revealed that the Tribunal was voting four to one to let him live. Duncan, who'd been well nigh to quivering with much-appreciated rescue-itis, stood down from alert, sagging back in his chair and closing his eyes in relief before grinning in triumph. Cassandra offered Methos a wry smile and a solemn nod. Serena— or rather, Kate, because she wasn't like the Serena that Methos wanted to remember—sat silently, lips tight and eyes down, apparently irked that he wasn't about to be killed.

The other tribunes were polite but not effusive. "Sorry about this whole mess," Reagan said from close behind him as she loosened his bonds.

"As am I," Urushan said, and the two young ones murmured something along those lines. Tunji got up and bowed then took a stungun from his pocket and handed it to Cassandra. It seemed her weapon had been confiscated for the duration.

Methos stood, rubbing his wrists, and accepted their apologies with grace and charm, for hadn't he just made a lovely speech about accepting people's mistakes? Though he did want to know who had voted for him to die. He might have to take a head soon. Kate's too. But probably not today.

"Can I have my things now?" Methos asked. He wanted his clothes and his shoes and his wallet and his phone and everything else they'd taken from him. He wanted the last eighteen months of his life back, too, but that time was gone forever. Methos added, "Including my sword."

"They are in storage," Urushan said. Methos waited, gaze steady and unyielding upon the other man, until Urushan added, "I will go get them."

Reagan looked from Duncan to Cassandra to Kate to Methos then kissed Duncan farewell. She leaned forward to whisper in Duncan's ear, and Methos heard her say: "I think you have your hands full now. I'll see you later."

Methos wasn't surprised to have encountered yet one more of Duncan's lovers. Or perhaps two or three more, for young Sofie may well have sought comfort in those brawny arms, and Cassandra had said that Duncan and Karla were friends. If so, that was five out of the five women in the room, a perfect score.

Tunji nodded to Methos and said goodbye to his fellows; then Reagan and Tunji went down the tunnel, back the way they had come.

"Dine with me and Cassandra this evening at Haven?" Karla invited Methos and Duncan. After they glanced at each other then nodded to her, she left with Chonglin and Sofie.

Then only four of them remained in the room: himself, Duncan, Cassandra, and Kate. Both women were watching him, and so he faced two pairs of gorgeous green eyes. But while Cassandra's gaze was merely watchful, Kate's was like that of a cornered cat lashing its tail.

"Orlath," Cassandra said, reaching out a hand to Kate. "Come with me. Please." Kate turned to Cassandra, and wariness slowly melted into relief, and Kate took Cassandra's hand.

"Cassandra," Methos called, because he definitely had a few things he wanted to say to Kate. And to Cassandra.

"Yes," Cassandra replied without turning around. "Later today." The two women left arm in arm, with nary a backward glance for him.

Then Duncan and he were alone in the room at last. "MacLeod—," Methos began, and then Duncan hugged him, tight enough to take the air out, hard enough to feel good. Methos closed his eyes, luxuriating in the very rare sensation of feeling safe and warm and at home, and hugged him back just as hard.

"I thought you were dead," Duncan said, his voice muffled against hair.

"So did I," Methos confessed. A shudder ripped through him, but he stayed where he was, letting Duncan know of that fear, letting Duncan reassure him with manly pats on the shoulders and on the back. Eventually, they pulled back to look at each other, but held on to each others' arms. "How did you find me?" Methos asked.

Duncan grinned again. "Witchcraft."

"Ah." He should have known, with Cassandra being involved.

"Using…," Duncan leaned over and picked up a key from the pile of stuff Reagan had taken from the jacket pockets, "…the key to your house."

Methos didn't even have that house anymore. He hadn't known Duncan still carried the key.

"Would you like it back?" Duncan asked.

"How about you keep it?" Methos forced a smile. "In case you need it again."

"God forbid," Duncan said, trying to laugh, his eyes bright.

"Yeah," Methos agreed. He shrugged off the jacket and handed it back to Duncan. "Have a pocket."

"Thanks," Duncan said, but he set the jacket on the table. Then he took up his katana, still sheathed, and offered it formally to Methos.

Methos had never seen Duncan voluntarily offer his sword to anyone, except the night Richie had died, and it had been bloody then. Methos shook his head. "Urushan should be here soon with mine. I can wait."

Duncan stepped forward, the long curve of the weapon lying flat on open palms. "I think we've waited long enough."

Methos looked up from the sword into eyes dark and fine. "MacLeod…"

"I want you to have this, Methos. To keep."

Well … damn. Methos didn't touch it, didn't move, caught as he was in Duncan's shining gaze. Methos swallowed, suddenly aware of his heartbeat, of hot blood leaping in his veins. "Only," he said, trying for a bantering tone, to keep it light, to keep it safe, just in case one of them backed away, "if you agree to keep mine."

Duncan nodded, a smile dancing across his face. "Absolutely. I've always admired your blade."

Methos looked again at the katana, that superb weapon, and he lifted it reverently from Duncan's hands. When Urushan returned, Methos presented Duncan with the Ivanhoe.

"Shall we spar?" Duncan suggested, his eyes alight with challenge and fun.

Methos himself felt as excited as an eight-year-old with a new toy. He hadn't sparred with a worthy partner in years, and to have it be Duncan, and with their newly swapped swords… It was like Christmas with bells on. "We shall," Methos replied as he swept a grandiloquent bow. He dressed in his own clothes, and they went into the cavern, leaving Urushan to putter about and neaten things in the tribunal room.

Methos drew the katana, and Duncan drew the sword. They went through a kata, side by side, getting used to the length and the balance of their new blades. Methos couldn't remember a blade that had suited him so well. Nearby, Duncan was trying out an intricate twirl of the Ivanhoe from hand to hand. "How's it feel?" Methos asked.

Duncan straightened and saluted him with the blade. "Perfect."

Methos was feeling practically perfect, too. "Ready?" Methos asked, and they saluted each other this time. There, in that hollow space inside the earth, they circled each other then came together again and again, mirroring each other's moves with force and finesse, weaving a dance of strength and steel.

"Well?" Methos asked when they paused for breath. "What do you think?"

"I think," Duncan said, looking down the play of light along the length of the blade, and then looking up with a grin, "that this is going to be a lot of fun."

Methos couldn't have agreed more. He would have liked to go another round, but he had been underground long enough and it was time to go.

Urushan led them up the stairs to the Haven school. During the long climb up, he offered them rooms for the night. "The school is on holy ground, an old monastery," he reassured them. "And recently renovated."

Methos was definitely in favor of a chance to sleep soundly in a real bed. And having bathing facilities that did not include a camera eye.

"We're keeping our swords with us," Duncan announced.

"Swords are not permitted at Haven," Urushan stated.

"Then we're not staying there," Duncan replied. "You are not taking a sword from either of us, ever again."

They climbed eight more steps before Urushan changed his tune. "Please keep them out of sight of the students."

"Of course," Duncan agreed cheerfully then told Methos, "Cassandra and Karla and Kate are all staying at Haven, too. And we'd be coming back up the hill for dinner anyway."

Convenience and relative safety, and one less hill to climb… "Certainly," Methos agreed, wondering how many more stairs were still ahead of them. His legs were starting to ache.

When at last they came out of the tunnel and into the old monastery, Methos headed straight for a door to the outside. He stood in the sunshine, breathing fresh air and listening to the wind and the birds, looking out at the sky above and the valley below on this fine autumn day. It was marvelous to be alive.

When he finally turned around, Cassandra was standing with Duncan, waiting. Methos walked briskly across the courtyard to meet them. "I'm not fond of being underground," he explained then added under his breath, "Especially for eighteen months."

"Were you hungry or thirsty?" Cassandra asked. "Or cold?"

"No." He'd been quite comfortable mostly.

"Were you staked out and left for days at a time? Raped?"

This was getting uncomfortable fast. "Cassandra—"

"Tell me, Methos," she interrupted, "did they break your hands?"

Obviously, their touching rapprochement from earlier this afternoon had not been a disarmament treaty. At least she hadn't said anything like that during the evaluation. "No," he told her. "Just kidnapped, killed, imprisoned, drugged, tied down, interrogated by persons unknown, and hit with a nerve induction wave." In response to Duncan's surprised and angry oath, Methos explained, "They edited that out of the testimony."

Duncan swore again, but Cassandra shrugged. "They did warn you not to lie, and Kate said you were stunned only once." She looked him over from head to toe. "Apparently, you learned your lesson well."

Methos gave up the bad-prison contest; Cassandra held a lot more cards, and he'd been the one to deal them to her. So he changed the subject by asking, "How is Kate?"

Cassandra accepted his capitulation without comment and answered, "She's waiting to talk to you in the sacristy. She's not angry with you, but she is disappointed in you."

This time Duncan snorted instead of swearing, and Methos grinned at his best friend before saying, "Those feelings are mutual."

"She says you have no loyalty," Cassandra reported.

In the past, he'd been far too loyal for far too long.

"She told me not to trust you." Cassandra smiled with disturbing cheerfulness. "I told her I never trust anyone."

Neither did he. Or rather, he knew that everyone was capable of anything, and so he was never shocked by what anyone did. Surprised at times, more often disappointed, and on rare occasions, delighted beyond words. But not shocked.

"She also told me I'd regret not killing you," Cassandra added.

"And do you?" Methos asked.

Cassandra stepped forward, all traces of malicious amusement gone, and looked into his eyes. "Not anymore," she said softly then named him Brother in a language forgotten by everyone except themselves.

He knew it wasn't a total endorsement; he'd both loved and hated his brothers, and they'd bickered and fought almost as much as they'd worked and played. Eventually, his brothers had died at his hands.

But the bond between him and Cassandra was deeper than blood and stronger than love, older than anything else left in his life, and he wanted her to live. He also wanted to touch her, to smooth the hair back from her face, to take her hand in his. But he couldn't, not ever again.

"Ki-e-nida," he called her, a name he had imagined for her ages ago, but never once called her before today. Ki-e-nida, the place of dancing. A place of joy. "I am honored," he told her in that ancient tongue, as he had told her earlier that day when she had spoken on his behalf.

She smiled as she kissed him, butterfly light upon the cheek, then she nodded to Duncan and was gone.

Methos stood in the sunshine, delighted beyond words, the touch of her lips still warm upon his skin. Perhaps he'd been wrong. Perhaps he could, someday.

He turned to meet Duncan's slightly amused and very interested gaze, though all Duncan said was, "That's nice."

"Mmm," Methos murmured in assent. But Cassandra wasn't the only woman in his life right now. "I'm off to talk with Kate. See you soon?"

Duncan clapped him on the shoulder, his fingers tightening upon muscle and sinew and bone. "Soon," he agreed, and it was a promise and a joy.

Methos stretched up on his toes and took another deep breath of free air before going back inside. From what he'd seen of the place, they'd renovated the old monastery into a school. The chapel had been redone as an exercise room, and the sacristy had been turned into a library. Kate was reading a book, and she glanced up but didn't speak when he came in.

He sat down in the chair facing her, but she kept reading. "Not much of a greeting," he observed.

"How should I greet thee?" she asked, turning another page, still staring at the words there. "With silence and tears?"

Quoting poetry wasn't her usual style, but he could play that game, and he knew this poem. Byron had written it right before he'd killed himself in 1816. "As I recall," Methos said, "that's not how we two parted. There was a kiss and an _au revoir_." She didn't reply, so he asked, "Are you grieving in silence?"

"Grieving. That thy heart could forget." She closed both halves of the book together, holding the volume upright between her palms. At last she looked at him, saying: "Thy spirit deceive."

"I never deceived you, Kate," he said gently, because he liked her. He'd rather not have to kill her. "And I never forgot you, either." That was mostly true. "So what have I done to you?"

"Nothing," she answered, as she had answered earlier that day. She'd also said everything had changed when she'd learned about his past.

"Kate, I know that finding out I'd been a raider was a shock, and—"

"I've known about that for forty years," she broke in.

"Really." More than a decade before she'd invited him on that delightful vacation in space. "How?"

"I read Adam Pierson's doctoral thesis on Sumerian dialects. Fascinating work, by the way."

"Thank you."

"I wanted to talk to Pierson, but when I did a websearch, I got his obituary … and a picture of you. So I kept looking, and found that Adam Pierson had worked for a very interesting company. I visited their headquarters a few months before it was bombed. I also accessed their computer system."

Damn all sloppy Watchers and that incompetent Tribune of the Guard.

"I found that Adam Pierson had had a long and varied career," she told him. "And yes, it was a surprise. But the man I knew as Marcus wasn't a raider. Neither was Philippe Jarbeau or Dr. Kyle Winston. So I didn't worry about it."

"Then why put the information in a safety deposit box? And why leave me dead in a cell for a year and a half just so you could hand it over to the Tribunal? Why the hell did you—" He bit that off and reminded himself to let go of the anger. It wasn't useful. "I thought we were friends."

"I don't think you have friends, Methos." It was the first time she'd used his real name. "Just people who are useful, or amusing. For a little while, and then you move on." She sounded more sorrowful than angry.

Methos didn't want to play guessing games anymore, and Kate obviously had someone particular in mind. "Who do you think I was disloyal to, Kate?"

"Byron."

That explained the poetry, but not why she would care. "I didn't know you knew him."

Her eyes narrowed. "We were lovers."

Ah. That explained a lot. Their combined enthusiasm had probably scorched the walls. And the ceiling and the floor. "Kate, I'm sorry," Methos said, making the apology as sincere as he could. "But I didn't kill him."

"I know. Duncan told me what happened when Bryon went to 'the good doctor' to find a way out of the darkness." She finally let go of the book and put it face down on the table. "You were Byron's teacher and his friend, and he thought you would help him."

"I did try."

"How hard?"

Not very. He'd talked to Byron and he'd talked to MacLeod, and after that guitarist had died of a drug overdose he'd warned Byron that MacLeod was coming for his head. But he hadn't shot Byron in the back and dragged him off to Tahiti or Tibet for some R&R. He hadn't said to MacLeod (as MacLeod had said to him the week before): "If you kill him, you face me." He'd just pleaded and argued and then gone to a bar to drink while Byron had died at MacLeod's hand.

Methos sighed and rubbed his hand through his hair. "Kate, I doubt anyone could have helped him. I think Byron wanted to die."

"Don't we all? At times?"

He never had.

"I don't blame you for Byron's death," Kate said. "He was far gone, I know. But he spoke so very highly of 'his friend the doctor' that I hoped…"

Methos had no response for that. Byron had always had an amazing imagination.

"They say that hope is happiness," Kate said, quoting Byron again, but then shook her head. "They're wrong."

"I'm sorry," he said again.

"Well, that's the Game, isn't it?" She shrugged then faced him to say: "I don't think you're evil now because you were a raider ages ago. I'm not angry with you, and I don't hate you. In fact, I find you quite charming."

She was charming, too, and earnest and lovely, yet she'd tried to convince a roomful of people that he ought to be killed, and he hadn't yet been able to convince her that he wasn't that bad. Pity.

"And I suspect that right now," she said, a ghost of a smile in her eyes, "you're deciding quite calmly that I need to die."

He didn't deny it.

Her ghost of a smile disappeared. "That's why I think you're dangerous. It's the same reason that Duncan thought Byron was dangerous. You don't care. Not about people, not about honor, not about anything. You do whatever it takes and then you move on. Your heart doesn't forget, because your heart has never learned."

She was so very logical about everything, and so very wrong. Methos took her hand and held it close against his chest, so that she could feel his heart beat beneath her palm. "I promise you, Kate, my heart has learned. It has bled, and it has broken."

Sometimes in his dreams, Kronos asked: "Does it hurt, Brother?" and then twisted the knife deeper in. Sometimes in his dreams, Alexa was there. When he awoke, she was always gone.

"I've lost everything, Kate, more times than I can count," Methos told her, dropping the mask he usually wore over the pain."So I've had to learn to let go. I know it can seem cold and uncaring, but it's just … pragmatic." He gave her a crooked smile that he hoped was charming, and she actually smiled in return, and her fingers moved slightly against his chest. That was promising. "If I didn't let go, my heart could never heal to love again."

Kate looked at him searchingly for a long moment. "So Cassandra is right about you?"

"I hope so." He did the charming grin again. "She should know, and I don't want to disappoint her." He got serious before saying, "Or you."

It took a few moments, but finally Kate nodded. "I only did what I thought was right."

As an apology, it was less than stellar. As an explanation, it would do. "I know."

"I'm sorry about you missing the launch," she said next. "And interfering with your plans."

She was getting there. "Thanks," Methos replied.

"I didn't mean to worry Duncan. But he hasn't seemed very interested in you, so I didn't think you two were in touch. But obviously," she admitted with a more than a touch of curiosity, "I was wrong about that."

That remained to be seen.

"Could you and I still be friends?" she asked, tentative in the face of his silence.

"Of course," he reassured her, because friends were less likely to kill you than enemies were, and he didn't need any more people after his head. They would be coming, he knew. Too many people knew who "the oldest immortal" was these days, and it was impractical to kill them all. Besides, he liked some of them.

Kate stood, and Methos got to his feet, too. He even managed a smile for her. She kissed him before saying goodbye.

Methos stood and stretched then went outside again, watching until the sun set behind the mountains and the stars began to appear, one by one. A beautiful evening at the end of a beautiful day.

The air was cold and the eastern sky was black before he went to his room. It wasn't much, just a square space with a small window and a bed, a dresser, a desk and a chair, but it didn't have cameras and the door locked from the inside. The bathroom was down the hall. He showered and shaved (oh, the luxury of a razor!) then wrapped the towel around his waist to go back to his room.

In the hallway, Duncan's door opened, and Duncan's head appeared. "Hey," he said then seemed to lose track of what he'd been going to say. He came all the way into the hall. "Um…"

"Yes?" Methos inquired, standing damp and barefoot in front of Duncan and not cold at all.

"I've an extra sweater," Duncan offered. "If you'd like."

"Thanks." These mountains in autumn were much chillier than the subcontinent in spring, and his clothes weren't all that warm. "That's very kind." But Duncan made no move to go fetch it, so Methos suggested, "Shall I stop by your room before we go down to dinner?"

Duncan blinked and focused. "Yes. All right."

"Give me ten minutes," Methos said then went down the hall. He glanced back before he shut his door, and saw Duncan still standing there. Watching.

Methos smiled to himself as he shut the door. Definitely all right.

* * *

><p>"Those colors suit you well," Cassandra commented when she met Methos and Duncan in the hall outside Karla's room.<p>

"Thank you," Methos said. The sweater contained woodland shades of brown and green and gray, and had been hand-knitted with silk noil and cotton yarn in an elaborate cable pattern. It was loose across the shoulders and a bit shorter than he liked in the arms, and it still held Duncan's scent. Methos tugged the bottom of the sweater down, enjoying the softness of the yarn.

"I'm loaning it to Methos," Duncan announced. "Since he wasn't given a chance to pack."

Cassandra's smile shifted minutely, going from polite to real, and Methos thought he detected a flicker of relief and then amusement in her eyes. "Very thoughtful," Cassandra told Duncan warmly then nodded and smiled at Methos when he held the door open for her.

Instead of following her in, Methos looked at Duncan.

"Cassandra made the sweater for me," Duncan explained. "Birthday present."

People could be possessive about clothes that they had made, even after they had given them away. People could be possessive about a lot of things. "She gave me a sweater about ten years ago," Methos said. It had fit him perfectly. "Shall we?" Methos asked, opening the door again, and he and Duncan went in.

Karla greeted them then said, "Dinner will be ready soon. Wine?"

They gathered near the fireplace. Cassandra chose an upright chair in the corner; Duncan and Methos shared the sofa, leaving an empty space between them. Karla sprawled back in her armchair, a glass of wine in her hand. "So, Methos," she began, "why put me in charge of the Tribunal?"

"I didn't want them feeling in control." Though they had been, more than he liked. "I wanted to see how they would react to change." And see how Karla would react, too. "And you were the only disinterested person in the room." He wondered how she would react to that as well.

All she did was nod. Then she moved on, saying, "All three of you know Kate. What can you tell me of her?"

She was really good in bed. But that was hardly pertinent information. "As I said in the cave," Methos replied, "she's an engineer. She likes to fix things, even when they're not broken."

Cassandra nodded. "She does likes to learn, and she's bright and determined."

"And very enthusiastic," Duncan said then added, "About pretty much everything."

Methos hid a smile behind his glass. Good in bed.

"Kate's practical," Duncan went on.

"Yet idealistic even so," Cassandra added. "It seems that hasn't changed in the last sixteen hundred years."

"In other words," Karla said with a sigh, "not nearly cynical enough to maintain this Tribunal she's designed."

Methos looked upon Karla with approval. He'd been thinking the exact same thing.

"Nor is Urushan," Karla said next. "Certainly not Sofie or Chonglin. What about Reagan?"

Duncan shook his head. "She's a loner, and she likes action."

"How about Tunji? Or the other twenty-two tribunes out there? We heard of three. Katya, wasn't it? And Carl Robinson."

"And Halao Mahelona," Cassandra added. "She's a decent person, but not, I think, administratively minded."

"Same for Katya and Carl," Duncan said. "I don't know Tunji at all, but he struck me as capable."

"Maybe too capable," Karla observed.

A woman of cynicism and caution. Even better. "Maybe this is why they wanted to recruit the three of you," Methos commented brightly. "Will you join, Karla?"

"I may have to," she said sourly. "Either to close it down or to fix it, because the idea does have some merit."

"Indeed it does," Methos agreed. Eliminate some nasty people, give Duncan a rest, enforce the code as well as the rules—lots of merit. However… "As you noticed, it also has some problems."

"Nothing's perfect," Cassandra noted. "Or permanent. Things change."

"Like the Watchers becoming the Hunters?" Duncan said. "Or the Church starting the Inquisition?" He put his wine glass down on the small table next to the sofa. "I don't like this idea. People haven't agreed to it, people don't even know about it."

"None of us knew about or agreed to the Game, either," Karla pointed out.

As Sofie had rather emphatically reminded them. Methos watched the blood-red wine swirling in the bottom of his glass, round and round and round.

"Word spreads," Cassandra said simply.

Indeed it did. Methos looked up to reassure Duncan. "The tribunal won't last, MacLeod. A police force requires a civilization, with quick travel and communication. That's already shredding at the edges here, and those who go into space will be beyond the tribunal's reach." He could disappear by going to a new planet, as he had disappeared by going to the New World fifteen hundred years ago. And if he staged his death before he left, the name Methos would again become a myth as the centuries went by.

Methos turned to Cassandra. "But in the meantime…"

"I'll sponsor you for membership in the Tribunal as soon as I can," Cassandra told him.

"Good. Thank you."

"That Tribunal almost killed you," Duncan reminded him.

"Precisely." Methos finished off his wine. "Better to be on the bench than in front of it."

"Agreed," Karla said then stood. "Ready for dinner?"

Methos certainly was. He'd never gotten lunch today. He ate heartily of the warm bread and thick beef stew, focusing on the food and letting the others talk. During the main course, the chatter was innocuous, but when they started on dessert (stewed apples with dumplings), Karla had more questions.

"Tell me about these Watchers," she said. "And the Hunters they turned into."

Duncan began the tale. "The Watchers were around for millennia, keeping track of us to see who might win the Prize."

"Observe, record, and never interfere," Methos put in. "That's the Watcher motto." Ostensibly, anyway.

"About sixty years ago," Duncan continued, "a small group of them went rogue. These 'Hunters' decided to hurry things along by killing immortals themselves. When the regular Watchers found out, they stopped them. But at least one immortal had decided all Watchers were dangerous, and in 2014 he bombed their headquarters and destroyed most—but obviously not all—of their records. After that, their schools were closed down and their organization was dismantled."

True in essence, if not in every detail. Methos didn't bother to offer corrections.

"And are all the Watchers gone?" Karla persisted.

"No," Cassandra said. "Some of that group are still alive, though quite old. But other mortals know what we are." Then she told the tale of a woman named Amshula, who knew far too much and was far too resourceful.

Methos closed his eyes and sighed in exasperation. "Amshula will start the Watchers all over again, if she hasn't already."

Cassandra didn't disagree. Karla seemed resigned, saying merely, "Looks like we have more work to do."

Methos didn't want to talk about it now. He set down his spoon then stood, telling his dinner companions, "Sorry, everyone. It's been a busy day for me."

"I'm tired, too," Cassandra said, and they thanked Karla, said goodnight to Duncan, then left together.

In the long hallway, Methos asked Cassandra, "How do you think the tribunes would have voted if you hadn't controlled them with the Voice?"

"I used it to influence, not control," she corrected.

"You had Chonglin dancing to your tune."

"Only for simple actions—let us talk, untie me—not for decisions. And five people at once are too many to control. I think they released you because of the testimony, yours and Duncan's and mine."

"Thanks again for that," he said, because gratitude was always a good idea. As were manners; he held a door open for her, and she smiled at him as she passed him by. They started up the narrow stairs, he following her, and he took the chance to appreciate her shapely backside. In the corridor, they walked side by side again, and he asked, "So which tribune do you think thought I should die?"

"Planning on killing him?" Cassandra asked. "Or her?"

"That depends," Methos replied, and noticed with approval that she seemed neither surprised nor bothered.

"Not Urushan," she stated. "He thanked Duncan and me for providing balance to the testimony. He's very committed to justice, and I think he's been dissatisfied with the tribunal's procedures lately."

"Urushan and MacLeod have a lot to talk about," Methos observed.

"They've started already," she said dryly then went on naming names: "Not Chonglin. Nor, I think, Tunji, since he wants your head for himself."

"Yes," Methos murmured. He'd noticed the speculative gleam in that warrior's eye. "That leaves Reagan and Sofie."

"Sofie, perhaps, because of her teacher? Or perhaps not, for the same reason," Cassandra mused. "I'll find out and let you know."

"Thank you."

As they reached a parting of the ways, Cassandra said, "About Kate."

Methos had suspected this was coming. "Yes?"

Cassandra turned to face him. "I want her to live."

Ah yes. He'd heard that lovely phrase a time or two before, most memorably from Duncan when Cassandra has been holding an axe over Methos's neck. And Cassandra had said it about him earlier today. He supposed he owed her, but that wouldn't stop him from eliminating threats, if need be. "I'll take that under consideration," Methos replied.

"I would appreciate that," she said then added abruptly, "I'm glad you're not dead."

Methos had to smile. "So am I."

Cassandra smiled back, bade him goodnight, and went to her room while Methos went to his. Time for bed.

* * *

><p>Duncan and Karla talked for only a few moments after Cassandra and Methos left. As they walked down the hallway, Karla said, "I'm glad you found your friend." She added grimly, "In time."<p>

"Me, too," Duncan agreed fervently.

She shook her head. "I had no idea Urushan was doing that."

"We all have secrets," Duncan observed, for that was just the way of the world. He commented, "You and Cassandra seem to be getting along well."

"Yes," Karla agreed cheerfully. "We seem to have much in common." She stopped walking at the base of the stairs, for her room was on the floor below. "Good night, Duncan."

"Good night." He ran up the stairs two at a time and had taken only three steps down the corridor when he felt the presence of another immortal. Methos's room was just ahead. Duncan walked up to the door and knocked, calling out, "It's me," because he didn't want the katana at his throat. He knew how cautious Methos was, and how sharp that blade was.

But when Methos pulled the door open, he was holding only a hairbrush, and he greeted Duncan with a smile. Methos waved his empty hand at himself, still fully clothed except for missing shoes. "Sorry, I just got started getting ready for bed. I'll have the sweater back to you in a moment."

"I'm not here for the sweater," Duncan said.

Methos cocked his head to one side. "Here to offer me a set of pajamas?"

"I could," Duncan said slowly, as if he were considering. "Of course, then I'd be sleeping naked." Duncan watched with great satisfaction when Methos blinked then tried to refocus his eyes. It was only fair, considering Methos's towel-clad saunter earlier that day. Methos did manage to say, "Ah."

Duncan waited, but Methos didn't invite him in. It truly had been a long day. "Look," Duncan began, "I know you're tired—

"No," Methos broke in."Not that tired. Come on in." He stood back from the door and gracefully waved the brush-holding hand. "_Mi casa es su casa_, right?"

"Right," Duncan agreed and finally stepped inside Methos's room. Methos had moved farther in, turning his back on Duncan in a rare show of trust, and Duncan pushed the door shut behind him.

When the latch clicked closed, Methos turned around but still said nothing.

They'd been doing this dance long enough, and they both knew all the steps. Duncan had already decided it was his turn to take the lead. "I've missed you," Duncan told him.

Methos blinked again. "I missed you, too. And thanks, MacLeod, for coming to find me. If you hadn't…"

They both knew what might very well have happened then. "Why didn't you give them my name as a witness months ago?" Duncan asked.

"What, and deliver my best friend into the clutches of the inquisition?" Methos asked, the lightness of his tone at odds with the seriousness of his eyes. "Never."

"Thanks," Duncan said, both for the protection and for the friendship, and then added, "You are, you know. My best friend."

"Not Connor?" Methos asked, but sounding curious, not jealous.

"Connor's my kinsman," Duncan said immediately. "My clansman." The bond of the clan wasn't only about blood. "He was my teacher and my best man, and he's my brother." Each of those relationships was unique and irreplaceable, and Connor was all of them to him. "But Connor's my older brother," Duncan clarified. "He'll always be the elder, and that means we're not … at the same level, as friends are."

"I'm a_ lot_ older than Connor," Methos pointed out, starting to brush his tousled hair.

Duncan grinned. "But you don't act it. Well," he amended, "not all the time."

Methos tossed the hairbrush aside to make a face and stick his tongue out, and Duncan replied in kind. That got them both to laughing, and then Duncan made his move. He stepped forward and took Methos in his arms, just as he had done in that room in the cave, and after a second of surprised resistance, Methos put his arms around Duncan, too. They stood there, hugging each other, just listening to each other breathe.

"I missed you," Duncan told Methos again, and Methos relaxed even more and sighed, his breath tickling the hair near Duncan's ear. Duncan let go as he moved back, looking into those golden-green eyes. For once they were serious, not mocking or guarded. So Duncan slowly placed his thumb under Methos's chin, the freshly shaven skin tight against the bone, and Duncan kept watching as he leaned forward, giving Methos plenty of time and space to move away.

But Methos didn't move, so Duncan kissed him, full upon the mouth. Methos tasted of wine and toothpaste, and he was smiling; Duncan could feel the curve of the lips that were pressing firmly against his own. Methos's hand found Duncan's, and their fingers intertwined. By the end of the kiss, Duncan was smiling too.

Methos was the one to break the kiss, but he didn't move away. He reached up to trace Duncan's jaw with a wondering hand. "You surprised me just now, Duncan," Methos said. His smile was lingering still. "And delighted me."

"Not yet," Duncan promised. He had a few things in mind.

Methos laughed aloud, then his fingers went back to gentle exploring, as he said softly in return, "Not yet."

Duncan quivered under that knowing touch. Methos obviously knew where he was going. Duncan felt as if they were entering uncharted territory. "You've never called me Duncan before," Duncan noted. "Only MacLeod."

For answer, Methos kissed him, slowly and with great care, then called him "Duncan" again.

With or without a map, Duncan was ready to explore. "Time for bed?"

"Definitely."

* * *

><p>Later, in the darkness, in the far reaches of that new land, where scent and touch and taste removed the need for sight and where heat and passion flared, Methos spoke his name again. Duncan answered that call, as Methos answered his.<p>

Much later, when soft gray light began to herald the arrival of dawn, Methos looked across the pillow at his sleeping friend.

His lover.

"Duncan," Methos said softly, not trying to wake him, just saying the name, tasting it again, savoring the sweetness and the strength. Then he watched as the growing light slowly revealed the magnificent beauty of the man. The face first, a study in contrasts: shadows and highlights created by the curve of cheek and chin, dark hair and eyelashes against pale skin. The hand, calloused and strong, yet deliciously gentle, the fingers warm against his own.

Methos studied the intricate layering of muscles of Duncan's forearm, the indentations in the skin from the biceps and triceps, the breadth of an impressive shoulder. The rest of Duncan was (sadly) hidden beneath the covers, but Methos could wait. They would have time together now.

From the beginning, he and Duncan had enjoyed friendship and camaraderie, and over the years they'd developed loyalty and trust. Last night's passion had opened the door to comfort and gentleness.

To love.

Methos moved closer to Duncan, kissed his hand, then went back to sleep.

* * *

><p><strong>The Keepers<strong>

* * *

><p>The morning after the trial, Cassandra and Karla went running at dawn. Cassandra had been the one to suggest it, but she had envisioned running in the valley, in the woods alongside the river. Karla liked to run hills.<p>

"I'm done!" Cassandra called when they reached the summit of yet another steep slope. Her leg muscles were quivering and her knees and ankles ached. She bent over at the waist, resting her hands on her thighs, gulping air so cold it burned.

Karla looked back over her shoulder and grinned then circled back at a brisk trot. She pulled off her knit cap and ran both hands through her dark hair, scratching her scalp vigorously, then let the icy wind ruffle the short locks. "I lived at the top of a tower once," Karla said. "I used to run the stairs, up and down, four or five times a day." She grinned again. "Two hundred and twelve steps."

Cassandra nodded, took another deep breath, and straightened. "A good workout," she managed to say then turned to admire the magnificent view of the sun rising above the distant mountains. When she was breathing normally again, she suggested, "Get out of the wind?"

Karla nodded. "Let's start back." They went down the hill and into the shelter offered by the high-branched pines. "It's good to see snow on the peaks again," Karla said as they walked. "But it's going to be another cold winter, and summer ended too soon."

"How was the harvest here?" Cassandra asked.

"It should be adequate, if we're careful. Urushan encouraged the people to switch to winter-variety crops that first year after the volcano blew, and they've always been farmers, so at least they know which side of a potato goes up."

They scrambled over a fallen tree, its bark rough even through gloves, then jumped an icy rivulet. "Are you leaving soon?" Karla asked.

"Kate and I will be leaving after breakfast. I don't know how long Duncan and Methos plan to stay, and also, they're—"

"Wrapped up in each other?" Karla suggested.

Cassandra had been trying not to picture that. While she didn't begrudge Duncan and Methos their happiness at being together, she didn't care to witness it. "No doubt. They probably won't emerge until noon."

"I told housekeeping about the happy couple," Karla said. "But from what Kate said, if you decided to stay I don't think Methos would mind being a triple."

"I would mind," Cassandra retorted. "I don't care to be shared by men." Especially by him. "Besides, I need to get back to the temple in Limoges. The Ceremony of the Naming of the Dead is only two weeks away."

"Speaking of the dead," Karla began, "if you can remake your talisman, we shall have three of the nine. Would you need the blade?" Karla offered.

"No, nothing made by human hand." She would need stone and water, wind and darkness, and a length of straight unblemished bone. And solitude for a year and a day, starting at the dark of the year. It would not be easy or pleasant, but it could be done.

"I can make it," Cassandra replied. "But not this year." She was not prepared.

"This Methos," Karla said next, pushing aside a low branch, "is he the key?"

Cassandra stopped walking. To her left, a young oak was forcing its way between ancient boulders, its roots ever so slowly splintering rock. To her right, pale fungus sprouted from the spongy wood of a long-dead tree. In front of her, where Karla waited, the path led steeply down.

Odd. Cassandra had never once considered that Methos would have that part to play. Of course, she'd thought he was dead, ages ago, and the Keepers but a long-lost dream. "I don't know," she told Karla as they started to walk again. "He might be. We'll have to wait and see." At least she didn't loathe him anymore. It might not be too bad.

"Let's run," Cassandra said, and they took off down the hill.

* * *

><p><strong>Limoges, France, 21 October 2053<strong>

* * *

><p>When Cassandra returned to the temple at Limoges, a summons from Mother Annemarie was waiting for her, along with hand-written letters from both Amanda and Chelle.<p>

"Lately, Mother Annemarie's been asking about you every day," Sister Tandagi confided as Cassandra stripped off her travel clothes. "We all thought you were going to be gone a few weeks, not four months."

"Personal business," Cassandra replied then ignored Tandagi's chattering while scooping up some clothes and the two letters. Cassandra picked up her toiletry bag and walked to the lavatory door. "Excuse me, Tandagi, I need to get ready to see Mother Annemarie."

"Oh, but—"

Cassandra went inside the lavatory and shut the door, relishing the silence. Then she stood at the window to read.

"_Sweetie_," Amanda's letter began, "_Duncan tells me you've been in India, helping to track down M. An adventure for the three of you? I'm jealous. When you get back, if you're not too busy, maybe you and I can have an adventure too. Duncan says you're good at finding things, and I'd like to find a crystal that Rebecca gave me long ago. There are actually quite a few of them, so if we find them, you could have one as a finder's fee. And did I mention we start in Paris?_

_Love always, A_

_PS. I'm dying to hear __all__ about your trip._

Cassandra hoped she would soon be able to tell Karla that another talisman had been found. It seemed Rebecca may well have been the Keeper of the Orb. Then Cassandra opened the letter from Chelle.

_I went to the Highlands. He wouldn't see me. Guess he's all yours now.  
>-Chelle<br>PS. I delivered your letter_

Cassandra winced at the starkness of the message, both content and form. Amanda's flowing script was ornamented with exuberantly graceful curlicues, but Chelle printed her words in block letters, straight up and down, no compromise.

And Connor was not doing well.

Cassandra showered and dressed, but didn't bother to unpack. She sent notes to Chelle and Amanda then went to Mother Annemarie's office and requested to be put on indefinite leave.

The other woman opened and closed her mouth twice. "But you just got back!"

"A friend needs my help," Cassandra explained. "Urgently."

Mother Annemarie tapped her fingers on her desk, clearly not pleased. "I have held your position on my staff open since June, Sister Elise, in the expectation of your imminent return. At, I might add, no little inconvenience to myself or to your other sisters."

"I am truly sorry, Mother," Cassandra said earnestly. "I did not expect to be gone so long. Or to need to leave again." Cassandra sat silent under her supervisor's sternly disapproving gaze, accepting the unspoken - and deserved - reprimand.

"I am releasing you from my staff," Mother Annemarie announced. She opened a book and didn't look up as she said, "You may go."

"Thank you, Mother Annemarie." Cassandra stood, bowed politely, and then headed for the door.

But Mother Annemarie had more to say. "Perhaps the sisterhood is not the right path for you, Sister Elise." She still wasn't looking up. "You should reflect upon your commitment to your vows."

Cassandra did take her vows seriously. But she had made vows to other people, too. "Yes, Mother," Cassandra agreed then left the room and quietly shut the door. She found Tandagi and Ninian at the dining hall and said farewell. They parted with hugs and promises to stay in touch.

Then Cassandra headed for the Highlands of Scotland, seeking Connor MacLeod.

* * *

><p><strong>The Highlands, Autumn<strong>

* * *

><p>Connor saw her coming. Cassandra was trudging up the hill, slipping here and there on half frozen mud, head down against the wind. He went inside the hut and shut the door behind him. The only window in the place didn't have shutters to bar, but it was too small to crawl through and six feet off the ground, up near the eave. The window was meant to let it light and let out smoke, but it let in cold, too. The dead ashes in the central hearth swirled under the frigid touch of the draft, then drifted down like dirty snow. Connor sat on the floor and waited.<p>

More cold air crept in, sliding along the floor, and he groped behind him until his fingers met rough wool. He pulled the faded blanket over his shoulders. When Cassandra was near, he stood and went to the door, holding it shut with one hand. When he heard footsteps, he leaned his forehead against the rough wood and spoke through the thin gap between the boards. "Go away, Cassandra."

"I brought bread," she told him.

Bread and oranges: their traditional peace offering to each other. The tradition had started in Donan Woods, where she had taught him how to be a killer. Connor had never forgotten those lessons, much as he wanted to. "Go away," he repeated.

Outside, there were rustling sounds, and then her voice sounded lower down. "No."

Connor stood there for a time, but eventually he slid down and sat on the floor again, leaning against the door, right next to where Cassandra was sitting.

Unlike Chelle, Cassandra didn't threaten or plead or swear. Nor did she use the Voice. Connor wasn't sure he could resist it right now, but he could—and would—exact payment if she tried it on him, and she damn well knew that.

They sat there in silence, while the spots of sunshine from all the holes marched slowly across the walls and the floor. They glowed orange briefly, an autumn sunset, and then they faded away. Dusk gathered, like thickening cobwebs all around, and the wind whined fiercely between the stones of the wall.

"Let me in, Connor," Cassandra said.

He hadn't let Chelle in, even though he would have liked to have seen her. But he couldn't bear to have Chelle see him, to see the shock and pity in her eyes when she saw that he had but one eye of his own, to see her admiration dissolve into disgust when she found out what he had done.

And he didn't trust himself not to kill her.

So he'd kept Chelle out of the smithy, and then he'd left her behind. But he'd already killed Cassandra a couple of times, and she'd looked at him with disgust and pity before. And if she could tolerate that bastard Methos, who'd raped and burned and murdered for centuries, she could sure as hell put up with him. Connor shifted over so that his back was against the wall instead of the door. "It's not locked," he told her.

A moment later the door creaked open, and Cassandra came in with her bags. She glanced around then set them on the floor in the corner, for there was no furniture in the place, just that one thin blanket and a jar for water. She lit a glo-globe, set it to dim, and placed it in the middle of the floor. After a moment, Connor realized she'd turned its heat on, too. Rivulets of warmth were moving through the room. He didn't move closer to the globe, just leaned his head back against the wall with his eyelids closed, listening to the half-forgotten sounds of a woman as she moved about preparing food, making up a bed, tidying things...

Heather had made those same sounds, year after year, making a home for him. So had Rachel and Brenda and Alex. Other women had welcomed him into their homes from time to time. Including Cassandra.

And now she had come to his home. Such as it was. He'd gotten out of the habit of housekeeping. He'd gotten out of the habit of regular meals, too. He'd eaten a rabbit yesterday, and he hadn't felt like hunting today. But now he could smell food – meat and hot bread—and his mouth was watering, almost painfully.

She set his dinner on the floor next to him then went to sit near to the warm globe, her back to him. Connor reached down and found a cup of tea and a pasty, traditional miner's fare. The tea was too strong, but still hot. The pasty held potatoes and onions, of course, with mutton and peas and bits of apples. It lacked the traditional metallic dusty tang that came from being heated atop the blade of a mining shovel, but it was warm and filling. He ate it all then drained the cup of tea.

When he set the empty cup down, she came to take it away. She still hadn't spoken to him, hadn't even looked at him. She hadn't asked him about his missing eye or why he was here or what he had done with his sword.

The silence was restful, and Connor leaned his head against the wall again while she cleaned and put things away. Then she took out her knitting, and they sat without speaking for quite a while, while her needles clicked away.

"I'm to bed," she told him eventually, and there was more rustling as she prepared for bed. After it grew quiet, Connor looked to see what sleeping arrangements she'd made. She'd brought her own bedroll, thin and shiny, and she'd laid it next to the globe, now turned down to nearly dark, but still warm. An identical bedroll lay on the other side of the globe, along with the blanket. Her bags and a few other items had been strategically placed to block the worst of the drafts along the floor. Her eyes were already closed.

Connor hauled himself to his feet, went outside to piss, then came back in, washed his face and hands with cold water, brushed his teeth, then took off his shoes. He kept his clothes on as usual, though the bedroll heated up as soon as he got inside.

He lay on his back, warm for the first time in weeks but sleepless. His fake and useless eyeball itched under the lid as he watched slivers of moonlight creep across the walls and floor.

* * *

><p>The next morning for breakfast, Cassandra brought him tea and a piece of bread slathered with orange marmalade. He ate it slowly, his eyelids shut, still tucked inside his warm bedroll.<p>

"I'm off to the village for supplies," she announced then disappeared. Connor rolled over and went back to sleep. When he woke, sunshine glinted off his bedroll and shivered on the walls with his every breath. The hut was cold.

Connor went outside, collected dried grass, mixed up some mud, then started to fill in the chinks in the wall. Cassandra returned as he was starting on the west wall, and together they finished the job. She took out a flat square of transparent plastic from her bag. He stood on a rock and wedged the square into the window then caulked the edges with mud. Cassandra covered the gap in the door with a long slat of wood.

As the sun set, she lit a small candle and placed it on the ground outside, then knelt before it as if in prayer. Connor looked at the sky, thinking back to the stars and the placement of the sun and the moon, and realized it was All Hallows' Eve.

The next day, Connor went hunting at dawn, and she prepared rabbit stew for their evening meal, cooking over the glo-globe instead of a fire. Her knitting had produced a long tube, and she stuffed it with grass and wedged it in front of the door. With the glo-globe on and the heat from their bodies, the hut wasn't frigid anymore. They ate the stew with the last of the bread and the marmalade, and Cassandra made tea.

But that night she made no move to fetch her knitting or turn on the glo-globe's light after the evening meal. Instead, she lit the candle again and set it in the window near the eave.

His mother and grandmother had done that each autumn, for this was the time of the turning of the year, when the veil between the worlds was thin and the souls of the dead went wandering, trying to find their way home. The Days of the Dead were days of holy obligation and remembrance, days of repentance and confession.

Connor watched the candle flicker and remembered the names of the dead, down through the centuries. His parents, his wife Heather, his teacher Ramirez. Connor silently named friends and lovers, fellow sailors and comrades-in-arms. Then immortals he'd known: Darius, Bouchet, Nakano, Rebecca, Kastigir, young Richie Ryan, and dozens more. His remembered his other wives, Brenda and Alex, and he called up and treasured images of his children: Rachel, Sara, Colin, and John.

Then he forced himself to think of the people he'd killed. Most were immortals, heads taken in the Game. He'd killed mortals, too: soldiers whose names he'd never known, pirates in the South China Sea, and a young lad who'd tried to rob him in Shanghai. He didn't remember them all. There'd been some minions of immortals, a trio of farm boys during the American Civil War, and an innocent passer-by in a smuggling operation gone wrong. And others who didn't deserve to die.

An infant immortal.

Tomas, just seven years old.

A young man named John.

Connor looked away from the candle, into the dimness on the other side of the room. The wind muttered sullenly outside. In time, the candle sputtered and went out. Connor and Cassandra sat in the silent darkness, near each other but not touching, looking straight ahead. Like a priest and a penitent in a confessional box.

Connor could still remember his boyhood lessons from the priests and the nuns. After repentance came the confession of sins, acknowledging what you had done wrong. And the more you hated confessing the better that was, because confession was part of your punishment. Only through repentance, confession, and penance could absolution come.

He'd repented every day and every night for more than a year. He'd punished himself, too. He'd gone hungry and thirsty, been cold and alone. He'd lost his home, his family, his eye, and his name. And more. "I lost Ramirez's sword," he admitted to Ramirez's widow, forcing himself to say the words.

"You treasured that sword," Cassandra said, but she wasn't pitying or accusing, just commenting.

That sword had been a part of him for centuries, the one constant in his life. "Ramirez treasured it, too," Connor reminded her, and so the ache of the loss was even more bitter. The ache of his missing eye was merely dull.

"Yes, he did," Cassandra agreed.

He'd failed his teacher. Betrayed his memory and his trust. Connor had avoided challenges ever since—seeking out Holy Ground, running from an immortal in Oban, and finally hiding here.

But she went on to say, "Ramirez would be pleased, I think, that it was his sword you used to kill the Kurgan. And many other evil immortals."

That was true. Over the years he had put the sword to good use, just as Ramirez had taught him. But Connor hadn't followed all of Ramirez's teachings. "I lost my temper in a fight," he told her. "I lost control."

"Is that when you lost your eye?"

"No." He hated to remember that day, but he couldn't forget. "That happened later that night. After I—" He couldn't bring himself to say it.

She said nothing, but she reached out for him. For the first time since the day Sara had died, they held hands.

He had to say it. In the darkness, Connor confessed, "I killed a man for no reason." The ache was in his heart now, a crushing band, and Connor whispered, "I didn't even know his name."

"And you enjoyed it."

Connor didn't hear any surprise in her voice, but then, there wouldn't be. She'd predicted he'd kill. Prophesied it. But he didn't hear disgust or fear, either, not like that day she'd walked away from him at Sara's grave, and she was still holding his hand.

Cassandra said next, "That's why you're here."

"Yes." He wasn't running from other immortals; he was running from himself. But he couldn't hide from himself. Not anymore. "The bloodlust—" No. He owned it; he had to own up to it. "My bloodlust frightens me," Connor amended. He knew damn well it frightened her. "The day when it doesn't…" He took a deep breath. "That frightens me more."

Her fingers tightened on his, reassuring and warm.

"I don't want to kill like that again," Connor stated.

"That's the first step," she said. "But I can tell you; it's a long journey."

The longest journey of all, Connor knew. A lifetime. "If I lose…"

"I will be there for you," she promised, turning toward him and holding both his hands now, as they always did when they made vows to each other. "As you have been there for me."

"Soul friend," he named her, gripping tighter.

Cassandra leaned forward, and in the darkness, she kissed his brow, his eye and his empty eye socket, and then she kissed him on the mouth. Not with passion, but with acceptance and understanding. With love.

"Anamchara."

* * *

><p><strong>EPILOG<strong>

**"To Be"**

* * *

><p><strong>Spaceship <em>R. P. Feynman<em>, Launchpad C3, February 2062**

* * *

><p>"Ready to leave Earth, Duncan?" Methos asked as they lay flat on their backs, strapped down to the acceleration couches. The purr of the engines shifted to a growl.<p>

"Ready," Duncan said firmly, and he was grinning, ear to ear.

Methos was grinning, too. He was finally setting forth on a glorious adventure to an unknown world under a different star, and Duncan was at his side.

And everything would be new.

* * *

><p><strong>MacLeod Farm in the Highlands, Summer 2081<strong>

* * *

><p>Connor watched as the woman made her way up the hillside through the scattering of golden flowers that fluttered under the cold wind amid the patches of snow. As the doctor had suggested, he closed first one eye and then the other, checking for any differences between his original eye and his cloned one, but everything looked the same: the loch far below, the snow on the mountains, and the wind-flattened grass on the hills. The scenery was familiar and achingly beautiful, but empty now. The MacLeod farmhouse and barn were gone, and no horses ran in the fields.<p>

The woman stopped near the graves, leaning on her black walking stick, regarding him with pale blue eyes. They hadn't changed, and neither had her red curls, but she was obviously pregnant and she'd gone from little-girl cute to stunningly beautiful. Orla was thirty-two years old.

"Welcome back," Orla said then added, with a grin made lopsided by a missing tooth, "Connor MacLeod."

He grinned back. "You found my name."

"On the underside of the table," she said with a nod. "Next to the initials of Colin Duncan and Sara Heather." Connor and Orla both turned to look at the weathered gravestones that bore those names. "Your children," Orla said softly.

"Yes," Connor agreed, touching Sara's stone.

"And John. And Rachel?"

"Yes." They walked to Rachel's stone, and he traced the rough coldness with a careful hand. There were more stones to touch, more family buried here, including Graham MacLeod, as well as dozens with names Connor didn't know.

"It turned into more than a family plot," Orla said. "People liked the flowers. But not many daffodils come up anymore. The winters are too hard."

Not many people were left, either. He'd been traveling past empty houses and abandoned villages for days. "When did you leave the farm?" Connor asked.

"The farmhouse burned when I was fourteen, and we moved to the village. But that emptied out eight years ago, and everyone went south."

Connor was saddened, but not surprised. The equatorial migration was happening all around the globe. Cultures and even entire countries were disappearing. Someday, no one would even remember their names. Not so long ago, he would have tried to stop such changes, fought against them, raged about them. After all, "Hold Fast" was the motto of Clan MacLeod.

But change continued, relentless and ceaseless as the tides, and there was no arguing with the sea. Connor was learning to let go.

"I've been coming back every year," Orla said.

"Waiting to see me?"

"To light a candle." She took one from her pocket and held it up for his inspection. "And this year, I knew you'd be here."

"You said you'd be old when we met again," Connor noted.

Orla grinned at him again. "To a three-year-old, anyone over twenty is old."

They came to a halt in front of the stone engraved "Alexandra MacLeod (1962-2027) Beloved Wife and Mother". Snowdrops still outlined the grave, though they were past blooming now. Orla knelt and set the candle in the ground, and Connor knelt on the other side and lit it. The flame, pale in the sunshine, wavered in the wind.

"My mother said her grandmother Alex planted the flowers," Orla said as they stood up. "When did she start?"

"In 1995," Connor told her. Alex had planted flowers every fall, until the end.

Orla shook her head in wonder. "She was near to my age. And almost a century ago."

It didn't seem that long.

Orla patted the stone with the familiarity of old friends. Then she turned to him to say: "You've come back to say goodbye."

"Yes." He wasn't surprised she knew. "I'm going off planet." He wasn't the only one. Duncan and Methos had left twenty years ago, and Amanda and Chelle had shipped out, too. Cassandra was staying; she said Earth was her mother and her home. But it was time for him to go.

"So those stories are true." Orla looked up at the sky. "We see the ships fly over now and again, and some say they're going to other worlds, but that always seemed daft to me." She shrugged then asked, "How old are you?"

"Old as dirt—"

"—and young as mud," she finished with him then smiled again. But she also asked again, "How old are you?"

Connor grinned. Stubbornness was a dominant trait in this family, generation after generation. He'd answered this question a time or two before. "I was born in 1518."

"Almost six hundred years ago." Orla looked out across the hills. "So much has changed."

"The mountains haven't," Connor said. "The loch is still here."

"And have you danced with the Fairy Queen?" she asked. "Is that why you're still young? Is that why your death shadow stays dark instead of growing pale?"

"I don't know," he answered. "It's just how I am."

Orla looked at him a long moment before she nodded. "When you light your candles in the years to come, light one for me."

"I will," he promised, as he had promised others before.

Orla kissed him on the cheek. "Someday," she promised, "the flowers will grow here again."

* * *

><p><strong>Earthsun School, Kenya, January 2082<strong>

* * *

><p>Cassandra stopped walking to watch the spaceship trace its white line across the sky then disappear into the blue.<p>

"A friend of yours is on that ship," announced little Yiqi. "And you're sad."

Cassandra wasn't surprised that Yiqi knew. She was one of the many children of Will MacLeod; his donations to sperm banks had been managed with care. Her maternal line had been known for their clairvoyance for three centuries. Many of the children at this school had similar backgrounds. The talents were beginning to breed true.

"Not too sad," Cassandra said, taking the little girl by the hand as they walked among the garden mounds, lush and green under the sunshine. "I know he'll come back to me."

Someday.

* * *

><p><strong>Thus concludes the story <em>Anamchara.<em>  
>The Hope Saga will continue in<em> Hope Triumphant IV: Keeper.<em>**

**_Many thanks for reading all the (very long) way to the end!_**


End file.
